


Watch the clouds, and I'm falling

by dirtyprettythings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Masturbation, Mates, Pining, Priest Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtyprettythings/pseuds/dirtyprettythings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski has it pretty good. A job, an apartment in Brooklyn, friends, and after finding his spark, an apprentice position. A new threat throws him together with Derek Hale, a priest and a werewolf with magical superpowers (he's sure of the powers). Derek Hale looks good dressed in black, but Stiles would do his best to resist the pull he immediately feels for the man. Because of the whole priest thing. He can do this. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Rating Teen for now, will change to Mature later.
> 
> My love and thanks go to my two awesome friends who edited and inspired this fic. Niina who found typos and plot holes, made questions and perhaps questioned my sanity at times. Juliana pushed me forward, knowing how frustrating writing can be at times.  
> All the remaining mistakes are mine. All mine.
> 
> Needless to say, I know NOTHING about the Catholic church, so this is indeed 110% pure fiction in that regard too.
> 
> The title is from Garbage, Bleeding For Poppies.
> 
> Pls, let me know if you want me to add tags.

Stiles Stilinski rushed through the morning crowd, dodging people, trying to keep the life-giving coffee cup in his hand steady as not to spill it. He wasn't late, _yet_ , but he would be if these stupid people didn't stop getting in his way. For a person whose attention span was somewhat short, he still managed to get to work, on time, every morning. This morning was no exception, opening the blue and white wooden double doors with his key promptly at 9.59. Breathing hard, throwing his messenger bag behind the counter, Stiles flipped the sign on the door window saying “We're open” visible to the street and took a well-deserved sip from the slightly crumpled cup in  his hand.  
The promptness in itself was the point, not the fact that the bookstore was open at 10 AM. The few people who visited the shop frequently came during the evenings. The days were for the occasional tourists wandering in, coming to buy exotic or weird sounding books, gifts or candles they thought looked kitsch-ey. The point was to have a routine, to get some sense of normalcy in a life that was filled with monsters and situations most people read in said books. Being somewhere, five days a week, on time, was steadying.

Long fingers clicked the keyboard while he checked the store's email and online orders. The soft notes of Super 8 Suite filled the shop. Stiles had a tendency to get fixated on movie soundtracks that played on loop, filling every corner of the two story shop. He was currently stuck in J.J. Abrams films, something about the nostalgic music reminding him of home.  
The long counter was next to the window and except for a small space in the back with a coffeemaker, a microwave and a small bathroom, the place was filled with books. The main floor was furnished with a small shelf filled with candles and colourful oils as well as prayer beads from various beliefs. The dark wooden bookshelves covered every wall, dividing the downstairs into sections. A few chairs were hiding in its dark corners.  The narrow, worn wooden stairs lead upstairs, where the same theme of a room being overrun by books was repeated. New and old books side by side, covering various subjects from Chinese torture methods to German folklore, Modern mythology and New Age Fairy Tales. The front of the shop was covered with delicate and colourful stained glass windows – it reminded Stiles of a church.

And in a way it was - at least a haven, a sanctuary from troubles unfamiliar to most people. Stiles worked for a man who rarely visited the shop. Deaton had been a trusted ally for years, helping Stiles and his friends to weave around situations that seemed to happen when your best friend was a werewolf. And Scott could get into trouble, a lot. The owner was a serious man, speaking softly in riddles most of the time. He divided his attention between the shop, his mysterious clients and what he referred to as , “some church business”. At the age of 27, having studied and lived in New York for seven years now, Stiles felt he was home. Being an apprentice of Deaton’s, ever since finding his inner spark, had lead to an unexpected path. He'd found a place of his own in Brooklyn, not far from his old flat he used to share with Scott. He had a steady job, friends, a place to live. This all seemed like a miracle considering their lives were repeatedly disrupted by having to deal with territorial wolf business, hunters gone rogue or other  darker matters with the underworld that was thriving in the city. Sure he complained, but only for the appearances; Stiles loved his life.  


It had been two weeks of peace and quiet. Stiles was enjoying the “good life”, taking naps, hanging out with Scott, Kira and Isaac, going for long runs across the Brooklyn Bridge and working.  Recharging the batteries that were bound to run out when the time came. Sure he knew it wouldn't last long, the moments of normalcy. They rarely did, and accepting it made them all the more sweeter. He wasn't entirely surprised when an e-mail arrived  from a club owner who ran a dark, slightly questionable establishment on the city’s edge. 

The e-mail simply stated

Deaton,  
it seems the Old Ones have not honoured the new agreement and treaty made in 1998. An apprentice is missing. You know what this leads to. This needs to be handled using the proper channels, as you are well aware how the Old Ones must be dealt with. 

Veera

Stiles stared at the email for a moment. Usually he had an idea of what was happening and how to approach the problem. But this left him in the dark, so he forwarded it to Deaton's phone. The man rarely checked the official email account since that was Stiles’ job. He carried on with his day as usual. Sold a few spell books to a group of teenage girls with black kohl around their eyes. It made them look more like nervous raccoons than mysterious witches. Stiles stretched his lean back, pulling his hair until it stood at odd angles. He was ready to close the shop. It was Friday night, and he couldn’t wait for the weekend to start. He had a date with a huge pile of Chinese food and Netflix - which would make him feel pathetic if he let himself think about it. But he didn’t. Wasn’t going there. Nope.

The back door banged loudly, revealing his boss tapping a message on his phone while walking into the shop.  
“So, this is exciting”, Deaton stated while leaning against the counter, eyes still on his phone. Sipping his third cup of coffee for the day, Stiles was unable to speak right then, so Deaton glanced up at him.  
“This, the business with the Old Ones. Quite interesting... ah, challenging situation. Not entirely hopeless I think, but we can't fix this ourselves. Especially not with, well yes...". He put the phone in his pocket while Stiles was still waiting for more information. Years of working with Deaton should've taught him better than that.

“Soooo, what? Who you gonna call?”, Stiles started, readying for his punchline, which Deaton stopped swiftly with a stern glare.  
“This is a job for the Three. And we're in luck since one of them is currently residing in the Holy Trinity of Mercy, as a priest.”

Stiles hesitated for a moment. While being used to the supernatural, he rarely heard of the church getting involved in anything resembling their problems.  
“Three, what’s the Three?” he asked while his mind started to run a mile a minute with possibilities, hand reaching out for his phone so he could Google it. Everything was online.  


“We're going to church?”, he asked while grabbing  his bag from the floor.  
"We're going to church.” Deaton answered, walking out the door without waiting to see if Stiles followed. Which, of course he did.


	2. II

The Church of the Holy Trinity of Mercy was a grand looking building situated opposite to a peaceful park, surprisingly near to the bookshop. Stiles wondered how he’d never paid any attention to it. The church’s green steeple rose high, reaching for the skies, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight like an emerald. You could see the thing for miles. Not that Stiles had ever needed a church to go to, but still, it was hiding in plain sight. The narrow pathway lead from the street to the wooden double doors, surrounded by gladioli and delphiniums and the red brick walls were hugged by a wall of ivy. Unpretentious sign on the door announced the times for confessions and daily service. 

They entered the church, Deaton shutting the doors behind them. It looked like any other church, as far as Stiles was concerned, with high ceilings, rows of benches and an altar at the front. Deaton stopped next to the stoup, not dipping his fingers in, but just waiting for someone. Stiles, feeling a bit out of his element in the grand religious setting, concentrated on the lavish decorations on the walls and windows. The colourful glass windows depicted the usual religious themes. Apostles, crosses and doves - Stiles glanced through them, nothing exceptional. Wait, is that a wolf? He moved closer to get a better look, the three windows above the front door being definitely different from the rest. The three high panes were each coloured differently, and somehow they looked new. Not ‘the-glass-is-still-warm’ new, but brighter. A picture of a man, wearing black and carrying a crossbow of all things, was pictured in the left pane. The background was shining in different shades of silvery white. In the middle, a black wolf was howling against dramatic waves of dark purples. Finally, the right pane was bright red, showing a young woman with fiery hair lifting her gaze towards the skies. Stiles was well-educated, knew pretty much everything about most common religions by now. This didn’t seem like a common theme to have on windowpanes. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Deaton nudged him on the side, nodding towards the altar. A gentle looking man in his 60’s was approaching them, giving them a friendly smile when he shook hands with Deaton. 

“It’s good to see you again Deaton, though I fear that every time we meet the circumstances should be better”, the priest said happily, seemingly not at all worried about the apparently difficult situation.

“I’m Father John”, he said to Stiles while offering his hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you finally, Deaton has told me a lot about his apprentice”. 

Stiles threw an accusatory glance toward his mentor, who seemed totally unfazed, as was his habit. “I’m Stiles, and I must say that I’ve never heard anything about you. Or this place”.

Father John shook his head while grinning widely, “Yes, we are somewhat a service for certain situations, a close group of people with secrets. Deaton usually deals with other members of our group, but in these more, ahem, dramatic circumstances I’m the middle man if the term can be used here. And you, well, in this situation, we need to take some extra steps ”. 

He turned to glance toward the altar, gesturing at thin air. “He should be here momentarily, once he’s finished downstairs.” 

Stiles had no idea who they were waiting for, but this was a good time to get some answers since he seemed to be missing big blocks of information. Maybe hundreds of years worth of data. His brain was itching.  
“So, who are the Old Ones, what’s The Three and how is the church involved?”, Stiles started firing his questions, seizing the opportunity. “Or, are there like books or websites I can glance through. To get an understanding of what’s happening here, since I feel I’m actually no help at all. And being an apprentice I think I should, at least, get the basics down before rushing to deal with whatever the Old Ones are”. 

He received a patient smile from Father John, while Deaton put a hand on his shoulder, steadying the young man who was about to go into overdrive.

“Actually, we’re waiting for the man who can tell you all these things. I will handle the preliminary investigation with Deaton, talk to Veera, the woman who sent the email, and assess the situation.” Father John turned again towards the altar, “and this man will go through the basics and be with you so you know what you’re up against. And be safe”. He nodded towards the front of the church. “That’s Father Hale”, pointing at the man walking up the aisle towards them.

Stiles wasn’t religious. Had never believed in anything spiritual except for things of the supernatural nature, or things that went violently bump in the night. Watching the man approaching them, he felt like he had his first religious experience. Which was appropriate since he was _in a church_. With priests. Staring at one, maybe mouth hanging slightly open. So maybe not such a good thing after all. 

Father Hale was strikingly beautiful. All sharp edges, lean torso with broad shoulders, ink black hair creating a delicious contrast to his pale face and perfectly trimmed beard. The black cassock he was wearing swayed with his movements. The hems created a rhythm that would make a snake charmer jealous. A white chain of prayer beads was hanging from his waist, the cross at the end glinting in the light filtering through the windows. His narrow waist was strapped with a wide purple silk belt and a narrower dark brown leather belt with two silver buckles. Which looked unusual, since Father John wasn’t wearing anything similar. Stiles stood paralysed, staring at the man (priest, he’s a priest! he yelled to himself silently), and what even is the colour of his eyes? Stiles found it hard to breathe, and this was not going to be good. So not good.

“Deaton, good to see you again”, Father Hale spoke, with a surprisingly soft voice, taking the man’s hand,“I’m happy to say it’s been such a long time, yet here we are again”.  
 The heavenly eyes turned towards Stiles who was trying his hardest to get his shit together and not stare at the priest openly. He was supposed to be here. He was here on business, get it together man - the inner monologue Stiles was having with himself was luckily not coming out of his mouth uncontrollably. 

“Stiles, I’m Stiles”, he stuttered, taking the offered hand, gripping it firmly. Looking at those pale green eyes, he felt caught by them, not able to tear his eyes away, no matter how hard he wanted to. Not that he wanted to, just saying.

“I’m Father Hale, and I'll be working with you this weekend”. The look on Father Hale’s face was stoic, a blank canvas, something Stiles would say peaceful acceptance would look like. Everything Stiles wasn’t feeling at the moment.

“Yes, yes you are and umm, I’m happy to get you. I mean a guide, happy to get a guide to get me started, to make sense of all this”. Stiles managed to get actual words out while still gripping the man’s hand (wow, full sentences, almost).  
Finally, he let go of Father Hale’s unnaturally warm hand, skin tingling lightly at the lost touch.

“Well, ah, yes”, Deaton cleared his throat, glancing curiously at Stiles. “Father Hale will take you to the archives.Tomorrow he’ll spend the day with you at the shop if that’s okay?”, Deaton said nodding at Father Hale who nodded back. “Since I can’t be there tomorrow, Stiles needs to be in the shop. It should be quiet so there's plenty of time to cover what's left”. 

With a solemn nod, Father Hale turned away, expecting Stiles to follow him. And he would. Most definitely. Stiles waved quickly to Deaton and Father John, saying his goodbyes and hurried after the priest who was already half way down the aisle. They exited the door on the left side of the altar, going down narrow stairs to a wide room with low ceiling. The place was stacked with books and scrolls, all in perfect order inside the wooden shelves that covered the walls. In the middle of the room was a large wooden table with chairs around it, light coming from lamps placed on the surface. So, no candles and cobwebs as Stiles had imagined. The air was dusty, tasted of charcoal and paper, ink and secrets. Stiles liked it immediately.

Father Hale was gathering scrolls and thick books from the shelves, but Stiles felt the need to fill the silence with talk. It was his routine. And just watching the man, or staring, wasn’t making him feel any steadier. The shoulder-waist ratio on the priest was enough to make Stiles dizzy. He admired the back while scanning the rows, bending down to take out books. The cassock was only highlighting the obvious, making everything look even better. How was this fair? Stiles had never had kinks, of any kind. Yet he might be willing to admit his newfound admiration for what he considered black dresses.

“So, do we start with the facts, the stories, or more like the personal stuff?”, Stiles said, running his hands along the spines of old books. Father Hale turned with arms full of papers and books, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Personal stuff?”, the priest asked while placing the items on the table,  
“I’m not sure personal “stuff” is on the curriculum”.

“Ah, well, you know I need to get to know the people I work with, at least the basics - so when I put my life in their hands, and I’m sure that will actually happen if things go like I think they will, I’m familiar with the people enough to trust them”, Stiles spread his arms wide, palms up, “I mean, give me something”.

The eyebrows scrunched together above the eyes that seemed to form a very un-Christian glare. Maybe the eyebrows were magic, divine, or something since they seemed to have the power to make Stiles feel stupid. However, he soldiered on, “or we can do the personal stuff tomorrow morning. Are mornings difficult for you, are you cranky...”. Father Hale puffed out a sigh that sounded annoyed (so very not Christian),

“I run every morning at 5.30. So I think I’m good with mornings”, he said with a stern voice.  
“Soooo, personal it is then!” Stiles flexed his fingers, “you jog in the mornings, what else?”

Another stern glare from the priest shut him up, and he sat down on the seat Father Hale pointed at the side of the table. So, not a fan of personal questions then. Stiles made a mental note to work on that.

The books were opened to chapters on the Old Ones and the legend of the Three. Stiles glanced through them with practised eyes, drinking in the information. This he could do, this was his thing. Research and concentrating on something else than the sinfully beautiful man opposite him was good. Maybe he shouldn’t think about sin. At all. In any form. And yet there he was, thinking about it. In a church. 

“Okay, the history I get. This doesn’t still give me any practical information, it’s all very churchy-talk, innuendos and legends. Like, I understand the Old Ones described as spirits, but why would we need the church to get rid of them? We’ve encountered spirits before”,  
Stiles leaned away from the books, wanting to dig out more than official history. 

Father Hale leaned forward, crossing his fingers on the table, pausing to think. “They’re actually more demons than your standard spirits. The difference is that they’re old, old as the creation. Their own beliefs make them stronger than what can be dealt with the usual methods. They need to be fought using their strengths against them.”.

“So, in other words, they believe in God. They can be defeated using weapons made by, what, God? Divine instruments? Or people who believe in the same things?”, Stiles said slowly, scrunching his nose in question.

“Exactly. Deaton said you’re good. And smart, quick. We're fighting fire with fire, I guess”. Father Hale said with what sounded like satisfaction in his voice. 

“That’s what all this means at its core. Though God is a flexible concept, faith is enough, but concerning the Old Ones, we need a person who truly believes in God. Like me. And we, the Three, are the Church’s way of handing out judgment and protection when it’s needed”.

Stiles glanced at the scroll in his hands, reading again the text about the beginnings of the Three, trying not to get overly happy about the small praise he had just received.

“And the Three began with the Catholic Church. Always three people, working for the church but not necessarily a part of the church? What does that mean, aren’t they all like you? Assassin priests with supernatural powers?”, Stiles looked at the Father.  
“I mean, you’re a werewolf, right? And a priest.”.

Father Hale looked momentarily shocked, his eyebrows going way up until the serene blank look that usually covered his face was back in place.  
“Ah, so Deaton told you already? It’s not that it’s a secret in the church, but- -”

Stiles snorted softly, “no no no, see my best friend is a werewolf. And you’re almost unnaturally _everything_ looking”, Stiles wiggled his fingers in the Father’s general direction,  
“and warmer than usual skin, shimmering eyes and well, let’s just say I had a feeling”.  
Was there blood rushing to his face, had he just said to Father Hale that he was unnaturally attractive? Surely not.

The look on Father Hale’s face didn’t falter, maybe priests didn’t notice when people were flustered around them. But surely his wolf senses could pick up the embarrassment and maybe (not admitting it) desire, so it seemed that the Father was quite used to it.

“Well, good to know we can skip that part”, he noted calmly, “and no, not everyone of the Three are werewolves. Not even Christians, we serve multiple realms and entities. Actually I’m the only one, and also the only priest. The other two, ah, did you see the glass windows above the door?”.

Stiles nodded, yes, it made sense now.

Father Hale continued,“currently, the oldest one is who we call the Hunter. He actually was, a former hunter, who spent his youth hunting werewolves. But after losing his wife and daughter to spirits, his hair turned silver grey, overnight. Father John found him, years ago. A life broken to pieces, the tragedy making him able to interact with the more spiritual things in the world. He gained certain faith, and has been a part of the Three ever since.”  
Father Hale was looking down on his hands, a slight smile ghosting on his lips.  
“He taught me a lot, once I was ordained”.

“What about the girl, there’s definitely a woman in one of the windows?”, Stiles urged the priest to continue.

“The Red Queen. Sounds dramatic, I know, something out of a Resident Evil movie.” Stiles almost fainted at the reference but tried to keep his cool. 

“But that’s the best way to describe her, the banshee, she can sense the future in a way. She’s currently residing in Hong Kong - giving the ghouls a run for their money. Her power is so strong, she relies on meditation to control it. She found her place within the church through a Tibetan monastery. It sounds weird, but we all fight the same fight. Belief systems are not that important, the Catholic Church having a more structured way of dealing with evil. The church has records and history with this sort of business. But Lydia, yes, she’s quite terrifying. I would not want to mess with her. In her own way, she’s the most powerful of us all”.

Stiles nodded, yes, that sounded amazing. A red haired beauty with terrible powers. He wanted to see that. _Hoped_ to see that. If he lived long enough. Given his profession, this was sometimes a very optimistic thought.

“And you, how did you end up from a werewolf to a priest and one of the Three?” Stiles knew it was a personal question, but hoped that it would slide under the heading “research”. 

“That’s a talk we can have tomorrow, don’t you think? Father Hale’s face gave nothing away, but the promise was there.

Stiles shook his head. No, he wanted to know everything about the man. Now. Why would a ridiculously hot werewolf ever bound himself to the priesthood, to the restrictions that demanded. It didn't seem fair. Not to Stiles anyway.

“We’ll start at ten, and I’ll tell you all about the werewolf priest, not that it’s essential to understanding what we’re dealing with”, 

Father Hale almost smirked, a sadness sweeping across his face, eyes shimmering dark purple until he schooled his face to its usual blankness. Stiles was intrigued, more now than ever. He could sense something else behind the perfect beauty of this man. Not the supernatural element, not the power, but something more interesting, a vulnerability, a crack.

“So, no first names then, not giving me even that?”, Stiles said. “Since you seem to be using your last name while everyone else is Father John, or Matt or something?”.

Father Hale shook his head gently, rising from his chair to lead Stiles outside. “Well, my name shouldn't be important to others. My name is known just by a few, close friends and family, and to hear it from someone’s lips gives me a false sense of the world. Sort of a familiarity I can't afford in my profession”. 

With that he leads Stiles outside, urging him to go straight home. Saying his goodbyes he closed the heavy church doors behind him. The night was velvety smooth and dark, people rushing to bars and the theater. Stiles watched them walk by, living their lives, completely clueless of what was hidden in the layers of life. He’d never felt overwhelmed by his life, not by the supernatural things, he was fine with them. But for the first time in ages he felt disconnected, like he was looking at his life from the outside. There was a bubble around him, and the loneliness crept along his spine - a feeling he had forgotten. There was a piece missing, and he only realised it was missing now that he’d found it.


	3. III

The church was dark, the lights dimmed, the high ceiling gathering the darkness around them while Father Hale closed the doors after Stiles. He joined Father John in front of the altar, kneeling, a quick prayer echoing in the air. Together they walked to the back, through the narrow stone passage leading to the small rectory connected to the church.

“So, Derek, you’re spending tomorrow with the young man? Everything okay with the job?, Father John asked, putting a hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezing it gently, eyebrows lifting questioningly. He knew Derek was not always good with new people one on one and sometimes needed reassurance. The man was intimidating and appealing at the same time. His looks also hid a complex person underneath the layers of practised calm.

“He’s a good choice for an apprentice. I understand their, ah, attraction to him, expect there to be no problems whatsoever. Stiles is quick and smart, nosy, but that is to be expected. It’s a good quality to have”, Derek laid out the words carefully like he did with most things in life within the stone walls.

“Ah yes, curiosity!”, Father John huffed, “a good quality until it’s fixed on you, I gather”. He chuckled lightly, patted Derek on the back saying goodnight, and walked to his own quarters.

Derek entered the small room he had lived in for years now. He had shaped the room to be his haven, a place where he could be himself, without the calm mask or the roaring wolf who only came out when needed.

It didn’t have much, but what more did he need in life?

Stone walls painted white and dark wooden floors, one room and a bathroom. A narrow bed with a hard mattress, a small bedside table and a huge desk covered in books and scrolls took most of the room. In the corner was his one item of luxury, a grey comfy chair with a reading lamp. A large wardrobe covered the rest of the wall. The room wasn’t special. Didn’t say anything about him. His most precious items were books and a few photographs he could take with him anywhere, so there was no need for spare rooms or huge paintings on the walls. It felt like a comforting cave, walls close, a home as good as he would ever get.

Derek changed into his soft pajamas and sat in the chair, leaning back with a deep sigh, lifting his bare feet to the ottoman. Doing the work, the work of the Three, always brought something new with it. Like an uneven tidal wave it tossed vicious characters and helpless people towards him, but that’s what kept him happy. No, not happy, he corrected himself - satisfied. The need to do good, to give back, to right the wrongs - his deepest desire was to be needed. And that felt wrong, the need to be needed. But it was his wolf, the alpha, so he accepted it. To help because it was right was not enough for him, Derek was driven by a stronger force, to protect, to keep himself functional. He also needed the fights, feel the blood flowing - it gave him satisfaction where the prayers fell short.

And then there were the other aspects of the work. Like meeting Stiles. Stiles with vibrating nervous energy piercing his senses. It was intriguing, he was able to admit that much. He was partly a wolf, he knew what desire smelled like, no matter how long ago he had shut down that part of himself. What was it like, to want something so openly? To have that feeling pounding behind your ribcage, giving you life, energy, a reason to keep moving?

Derek didn’t know.

He skirted away from any signs of emotional danger, feeling the fire it could bring. He protected even his name, not wanting casual acquaintances call him the name his mother had used. And he was born from fire, so he knew it had the power to create different beasts out of those who weren’t careful. His wolf would disagree, of course. The wolf wanted to taste the feeling, feel the flame torch his heart, to warm it. A dangerously reckless want sometimes tightening his spine. He fed the wolf, kept it happy, by having carefully selected friendships, a close community, to have a sense of pack. Not that it was the same. But the fights, they were his final offering - the release, pulsating power, raw energy, in violence his wolf and he were the same. Together, satisfied, silent.

He’d had to tread gently with Stiles, who was bound to be a valuable ally. Derek had used his priesthood as an armour before, he had a full understanding of how his looks affected people. Sometimes, lying in his bed waiting for the sleep to come, he wondered how his life would be different if the flames hadn’t shaped his path so irrevocably.

Those were the dreams he had when he was somewhere between awake and sleep, allowing his mind to drift to places that weren’t real. Hovering in the middle, free. He never remembered dreaming, about anything. His sleep was always a dark blanket covering him, protecting him from memories. It erased the things he’d done while protecting the innocent. He trusted God’s plan, this was his path, his way, the night offering redemption in the form of a cleansing sleep. It was more than most people could hope for, and Derek felt lucky and grateful.

He wasn’t made of stone. It was nice, at times, to be noticed since he’d spent so much time learning to walk in the shadows. It was flattering to be wanted too, but it was a luxury reserved for others. To enjoy the feeling fully would lead to paths he wasn’t about to take.

Derek fell asleep thinking about nothing, accepting the relief of sleep like an old friend.

*****

Stiles was dangling a bag full of take-away Chinese, which he’d picked up from Mr. Wong’s, on his way home. Mr Wong, who was actually an 80-year-old tiny Chinese woman with piercing eyes and a granddaughter, had his order memorised. She also tried to set up the granddaughter with Stiles every time he went to get food. With the order came always the same litany of suggestions of where to take the said granddaughter, if they went on a date. After that came the loud questions of why the order was always for one. Still no special friend? As if Stiles needed reminding. But he loved the food, it made chubby angels weep. And his single status was fine with him, he didn’t really need any comments about it. It was fine.

He tossed the keys to the coffee table and closed the door which was covered in elaborate runes and lined with mountain ash. Stiles took the safety of his place seriously. He set the containers on the living room table and reached for his Mac. His brain was buzzing, skin thrumming. He didn’t want to forget anything and he needed to do some research for tomorrow. He wanted to be prepared when he met Father Hale again - not that he wanted to make an impression, just to be ready, to have some background, for science.

Chewing on noodles, chopsticks in his right hand he opened a browser and stopped. What was more important, a search using the names of the Three, googling the church or look up stories about spirits leaning more towards the demon-ish elements?

Staring at the wall opposite him Stiles remembered the flash of dark purple in Father Hale’s eyes, the sadness that had made itself known during a seemingly harmless conversation. Purple eyes didn’t sound werewolfish to Stiles. Actually, not at all. He pulled up the files he’d put together many years ago when his friend Scott had been bitten. Yellow, blue, red - just as he thought. He walked to the bookshelves that covered an entire wall in his living room, picking up books about werewolves and lores. He finished his meal reading through the pages, googled, and finally threw the books to the coffee table, lifting his feet up and sighing in frustration.

Not one single mention of werewolves with dark purple eyes. Was he seeing things? Possible, he admitted, the beauty of Father Hale was probably making him partially blind. Maybe the colour was somehow reflected from the silk belt on his waist. No, that didn’t make any sense. According to Google, purple represented pain, suffering and mourning in Catholicism - so, all the good stuff. Also, it was the colour of royalty, which just confused Stiles more. A werewolf with purple eyes, a royal in royal pain? Seemed probable, given the mysterious air Father Hale seemed to surround himself in. It also sounded far-fetched. Stiles slapped himself on the forehead and did a quick search of the name Hale.

What he found made him feel like throwing up. There wasn’t much, but digging deep and far enough, he found mentions of a house burning down, the family trapped inside, blame pointed towards something labeled as “deranged cult”. Sounded a lot like a cover-up. Stiles would know about those, his father being the sheriff in a town that had its fair share of unexplained things happening. The articles didn’t say anything about the dead, stating only that two members of the family had survived - a 13-year-old boy and his uncle. No names, no pictures, but Stiles did a quick calculation - the article was written 20 years ago, Father Hale seemed a bit older than him, maybe 32, 33? It added up. Stiles felt like an intruder, a guest that barged into someone’s life without permission, accepted or wanted. He promised himself not to ask about the fire, no matter how much he wanted to. He could rein in the crazy curiosity if he wanted. Sure.

But he really wanted to know. Father Hale had set himself firmly beneath Stiles’ skin the minute he walked down that aisle in that cassock that screamed “don’t touch”. Burrowed himself deep, within minutes. In a church. He was okay with it, attractive people were easy to notice, easy to accept. Stiles wasn’t a hypocrite, he appreciated beauty okay? But it was more than that. He couldn’t figure out what it was in that calm looking man, who was a priest for fucks sake, that made Stiles’ skin hum. The Father made his magic hum, his palms itch and the air in his lungs sting like he wanted to push it all out with one deep sigh.

Admittedly, Father Hale was gorgeous. Stiles wanted to run his fingers along that stubble, grab the black hair and stare into those eyes forever if given the chance. Why did he feel so nervous around Father Hale? He was surrounded by beautiful people, even dated them - Stiles high-fived himself on that one. But yes, Father Hale was almost too perfect, unnatural in the way he affected Stiles. Without even trying. Maybe he should be thanking Jesus or someone, who kept people like Father Hale from using the full force of their hotness against defenceless people like him.

Climbing into bed he was still thinking about the priest whose eyebrows seemed to say more than the man himself, the lines of his back, the glare of the eyes. He was utterly and truly fucked, and maybe he should feel a bit inappropriate? It was one thing to appreciate beauty, quite another to lust after a man who could smell his interest, and was a priest to boot. He needed to dig deep, find his professionalism and concentrate on the matter at hand. Going over the promise to himself like a mantra in his head Stiles knew he was lying. He was good at that too. Research and denial - two of his strongest attributes. But he could be respectful, maybe; professional, definitely. Curling up in his duvet Stiles knew, without a doubt, that there was something in Father Hale that would not give him rest any time soon. It was up to Stiles to push through it, to manage somehow not having the one thing he thought he might want more than anything.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up on Saturday if the wifi in my new flat is working.

Stiles usually slept until he’d snoozed the alarm on his phone multiple times. This Saturday morning, however, he found himself wide awake at 7 AM, already full of energy and anticipation. He’d promised himself to stay cool, professional and respectful - knowing full well that some things just weren’t for him to have. But at least, he could enjoy the view, right? Switching on the coffee maker, he browsed through several news sites, listening to the morning radio, enjoying the calm pace of the early morning, for once not having to rush out the door.

After changing his t-shirt three times, finally deciding on a more subtle graphic tee, he grabbed his computer, keys and phone, tossed the messenger bag over his shoulder and walked to the shop. The almost empty streets and crisp autumn air kept his mind off the impending struggles. Calm. That was the word of the day. Stiles could do calm. Easily.

The coffee maker hissing in the back room, he put on a playlist, once again checked the emails and left the door unlocked. Stiles headed to the back, starting to unload a shipment of books that had arrived from Europe. He checked titles, finding correct places for them along the long shelves while humming along to the music. The early morning went quickly, Stiles enjoying the texture and smell of the books, browsing through them, sipping his coffee. His peace was interrupted by the bell above the door, and Stiles, taking a deep breath, braced himself and walked to the front to greet Father Hale.

The man entering the shop looked like Father Hale but what in heaven’s name was he wearing? Stiles, who had fought hard to find his inner calmness, was embarrassingly easily shaken when he saw the man wearing a leather jacket, dark jeans, Converse sneakers and a tight black t-shirt. Nope. This was not happening, Father Hale in casual clothes was probably one thing but tight jeans and a leather jacket? What entity had Stiles insulted to have his inner equilibrium rattled this badly?

Stiles realised he was frozen in the middle of the room, one hand grasping his coffee mug like his life depended on it, staring Father Hale and definitely not saying hello. Words, he needed words. This was coming obvious when the man raised one eyebrow and lifted his hand in a silent little wave, eyes glinting in the morning light with what looked like embarrassment? Weren’t priests supposed to look like they were working all the time? Use a clerical collar or something at least, instead of vibrating this bad boy air that was definitely the word to describe the man in front of him. Stiles just couldn’t catch a break.

“Um, hi, sorry come in”, Stiles managed to stutter, willing his eyes to stare at the counter on the side of the room. “I, wow, I didn’t realise you could wear something other than priest clothes, like something so...ah, normal?”. Ugh, he was very not proud of himself right now.

Derek cocked his head to the side, face now completely serious, “like an actual person you mean, instead of a 24/7 call centre to God?”.  
The voice was serious but there was an undertone of sassiness, which surprised Stiles. It made him question the image he’d formed in his mind about the Father.

“No, I just, I admit I know very little about priests or their lives. So I just assumed you’d be waltzing in here in that cassock or something. Since it suits you, not that you don’t look great right now, because you do. Better, or not, I mean, I’ll just shut up now, “  
Stiles managed to cut off the word vomit coming out his mouth, turning towards the back of the shop, mentally hitting himself in the head. “You want coffee?”  
 Derek huffed and slid the jacket off his shoulders walking to the counter to drop it into the chair behind it. “Yes please, I take mine black”. Man of many words as Stiles was learning.

Stiles fled to the back, leaving the man to stand there, a confused look on his face. Stiles needed a moment, silently cursing that the Father had managed to surprise him. He wasn’t a 17-year-old boy in high school anymore. No reason to drool over the hot boys who looked dangerous and totally out of his reach. He was a grown man, actually quite the badass himself. Fighting evil, learning magic and facing danger regularly. After another inner pep talk, he grabbed a mug for Father Hale and walked to the front with determination. Look at the new Stiles, not fretting or getting overwhelmed with ridiculous hotness in front of him.

Derek was leaning against the counter, flipping through a book illustrating the history of male circumcision in vivid details. Eyebrows drawn together, shrugging in confusion he took the mug from Stiles, glancing at the young man carefully. He had thought about wearing more traditional clothes, but he needed to blend in. He had felt restless, like the wolf inside was clawing at the dark restricting clothes he usually wore.

So he’d given in, deciding to wear his regular clothes. They were soft to touch, dark and protecting, yes, but also flattering. That was a problem. Derek knew that, but after living so many years serving God, giving most of his time to Him, he’d decided long ago to allow himself simple pleasures. Wearing comfortable clothes was hardly a sin. Seeing Stiles’ reaction made him question his choices, but his wolf was happy, and one of them needed a break. He could handle Stiles. Maybe.

Stiles fiddled through the books, laying a few out on the counter sitting next to Derek while still sipping his coffee with a look of determination on his face. Derek felt the tension dripping from the boy, and he sighed internally. Had he made a mistake? He didn’t want to care. Being outside, wearing normal clothes and interacting with a somewhat normal person felt like a holiday, which this definitely wasn’t. Tomorrow he would go back to his role, hearing confessions, people pouring out their errors in erratic waves, asking for forgiveness for things that weren’t even important. Derek was sometimes surprised at what people considered sins - his life seemed so much worse.

“Do you remember what you promised last night?”, Stiles finally lifted his gaze from his fingers grasping the coffee mug.  
“Can we just get to know each other a little better, or do you want to get down to business?”.

The voice didn’t waver but there was a silent plea, which Derek picked up on immediately. Stiles was obviously a people person, more comfortable the more he knew - using information as a tool to survive everyday life.

“I still don’t think it’s important, as far as the job is concerned”, Derek stated quietly, lifting his gaze to meet Stiles’,“but if you want, yes, we can talk about me”, he added, nodding towards the young man. The sun was filtering through the glass panes, making Stiles’ eyes luminous. He was so close, their thighs almost touching sitting on the high stools by the counter. Derek found himself staring at the amber eyes. It felt important, keeping the contact, sitting so close, though Derek had no idea why.

Stiles blinked rapidly, tearing his eyes away from the priest who suddenly seemed intensely focused on him. Maybe Father Hale was just an intense person, staring straight into the souls of the sinners, Stiles thought nervously. His soul was not ready to be opened before priests and everybody, he had too much to hide. Especially from this priest. Stiles felt hot, feeling the gaze of Father Hale still fixed on him, making Stiles’ neck redden under the scrutiny. Or maybe it was desire, who knew anymore, he was confusing hiding his lust with trying to keep his faults to himself.

“So, umm, give me just the basics. How long have you been a part of the Three and anything else you can tell me about the actual work, what it involves?”,  
Stiles was staying focused, was strictly about the job, go him. The unnatural heat emanating from the other man was addictive. All he really wanted was to lean in, closer, which felt off - when had he ever been drawn to someone, this hard and so fast?

“Okay, let’s see”, Derek leaned back, the black t-shirt hugging his torso closely, making Stiles’ eyes definitely not go to his abs, “I’m uh, an orphan of sorts.” Derek stopped, frowning, seemingly debating internally if this was essential information. It wasn’t, being an orphan had nothing to do with Stiles, or the case, it had just come out. He stopped talking, eyes staring downwards, not moving. Locked up, shoulders tense, he’d said too much in one sentence.

“Okay, Stiles said softly, twisting his torso towards the man.  
“So, you ended up in the orphanage? And you stayed? I mean, you don’t need to tell me, not really, I was just wondering how a werewolf would end up as a priest, but, um - -”, Stiles sighed, running his hand through his hair, yanking it out.  
“It’s not necessary for me to know why you’re an orphan. Just, was the orphanage connected to the church, or how did you grow into the priesthood?”.

This was as careful as Stiles could be, as gentle as his bouncing mind allowed him to be. He was made of energy and movement, but something in Father Hale forced him to stay still. He didn't want to scare the ridiculously sculpted and powerful man - and if that wasn’t the weirdest thing then Stiles didn’t know what was. And he’d fought gnomes, so weird was kinda his world.

Derek wasn’t ready, he had realised it the moment the words about being an orphan came out of his mouth. What possessed him to say such a thing anyway? He never let things like that slip. Reaching inside, finding the calm centre of faith that always soothed him, he looked up again, sensing there was no danger, no judgment. Stiles would never push him too far, pry too much - Stiles was just sitting there, waiting. He was as safe as anyone  could ever be. And that was wrong, since Derek was supposed to be the protector.

“No, it’s fine. I’m just not used to talking about it since it’s not relevant. Or even interesting. A priest’s path to his chosen profession is not something a lot of people ask about”, Derek said calmly, offering a comforting smile.

“But you’re right. I grew up in a Catholic orphanage, from the age of 13, and found God, to put it as simply as possible. It wasn’t easy, I had my rebellious years, but I was lucky, being a werewolf and ending up with Father John “. Derek’s face was lighting up, the usual calmness changing into something even more appealing. Stiles was unable to do anything but stare helplessly. Yeah, he got it bad.

“He took me under his wing. And when he realised I was more than willing to dedicate my life to God, to the needy  and the helpless, he offered me first a way to become a priest. Which I wanted more than anything. Faith gives me - a purpose”.  
Derek was the epitome of zen wolf now. Talking about his faith always soothed him, and he’d been feeling on edge almost the minute he’d walked through the door.

Stiles stayed silent for a while, studying Father Hale’s face carefully, envying the peace emanating from him when talking about becoming a priest. Finding a purpose, not needing or wanting anything else, what did that feel like? Stiles had no idea, his very essence always yearning for things he couldn’t possibly get.

“Your story is more interesting than the average priest’s, you realise that don’t you?”, Stiles asked softly. “Being a werewolf and all. But becoming a priest, that I understand, somewhat. But the Three? Was it just your abilities or what, what made you part of this?”, Stiles tapped his finger on a page in a book resting on the counter, telling a story of a mysterious force of the Three a thousand years ago.

Derek huffed under his breath, glancing up towards the ceiling like looking for guidance.“From a very young age, ever since I moved to the orphanage, I’ve wanted something, some kind of way to settle the score. You can call it vengeance, if you want. I was young, hot-blooded, eager, my skills and abilities more than adequate to do real damage. So I sought out a way to push out the anger, as my wolf needed an outlet.  Father John introduced me to Chris Argent, the man we call The Hunter”.  
Derek’s eyes were shielded, careful, flicking quick glances towards Stiles who remained still, waiting patiently, not wanting to interrupt.

“So, I found peace by becoming a priest, serving God. But my wolf, it needed the Three, the mission and purpose it could offer. Quite simple really, like I was made for this life. Serving, but somehow more. Since I don’t want to pretend to be all holy and pure. I need the release and purpose too much”,

Derek paused, scrunching up his face in confusion, like he wasn’t sure this was what he wanted to say. Stiles stayed silent, knowing  that sometimes being quiet was the best way to make someone talk, to lure the person out. And after getting only one sentence answers before, this seemed like a flood of information.

“You don’t think you’re pure?”, Stiles had to ask, the idea seeming ridiculous.

“No, I… it’s not what I want, or seek. It’s not relevant to me since I’m created, taught, to do things, to help, to be there for others. Pureness is not the thing, for me. I know it seems hard for someone not living this life to understand, but it’s not supposed to be about me. It shouldn’t be, I don’t actually matter, but the selfish side of me enjoys the purpose and the fights”.

And if that wasn’t the most depressing thing Stiles had ever heard then he didn’t know what was. This gorgeous man, giving up everything he could’ve had, love, pack, anything -  it broke Stiles’ heart with every word.

Since it was obvious to Stiles that something was broken. He felt the uncontrollable urge to take the man into his arms, offer solace, comfort, show him what life could be, accepting love, other than the love of God that is. But of course, he couldn’t do that. Not now, not ever. This was Father Hale’s choice, his path, and he had to respect that. There was no way Stiles would actually do any of these things, ever. Father Hale seemed satisfied, happy in his own way.

“I don’t really understand, the need to serve God or others, in a way that consumes your whole life”, Stiles stated,“but it’s a choice, and I respect that, naturally”.  
He glanced at Father Hale, and got up from his chair,“and I didn’t mean to make this conversation so loaded, so forgive me if you feel pressured in any way. I’m just curious, and, well, you’re a man of few words, usually, so I’m taking any bit of information I can from you, sorry”. Stiles grinned, trying to make the air around them lighter, easier for the Father to breathe.

Derek was shaking his head, like trying to wake up from a dream, also getting up, looking around the shop,“I don’t usually talk this much, you’re right”, Derek tilted his head, “this is surprising, and I’m not even sure it’s a good thing. But it’s said, and I hope you don’t feel too taken aback with my somewhat depressing talks”.

He walked to the shelf holding the prayer beads, running his fingers through the ribbons, “I have a tendency to over-dramatise things sometimes, maybe it’s all the stern praying and fighting for justice, makes me feel very important”, the man seemed to almost grin,“ I have a flare for dramatics, learned that from my uncle”.  
He didn’t explain himself further, so Stiles let it be, stopping next to Derek, watching the beads slip through the priest’s fingers.

“Yours are white, aren’t they, the beads?”, Stiles asked instead of pushing the man further, changing the subject.

“You noticed?”, Derek shot a glance in Stiles’ direction, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, never seen a material so shiny, is it a pearl, special kind of wood, what?”

Derek shook his head, dipping his chin closer to his chest, taking a deep breath, “Stiles, they’re bones, beads made out of bones”, he stated flatly.  
Stiles stared, again. He realised he’d been doing a lot of that in the last 24 hours. He needed to learn new moves.

“Bones”, he managed to get out, mind already jumping to the goriest conclusion, “like actual human bones?”

“Yes Stiles, the bones of my enemies”, Derek put a hand on Stiles’ neck, squeezing gently, “I’m very eco-friendly, I like recycling, save the planet and all”.  
The hand felt warm and grounding, but Stiles’ eyes grew larger with surprise until he saw the little smirk on the priest’s lips.

“Oh my god, you’re terrible. I actually believed you for a moment, like, of course you would have bones on your rosary, wouldn’t you? But they’re not, like, people you’ve known. Right?”, Stiles managed to get out, trying hard not to drown on the feeling of the warm hand still resting on his neck.

“Well, they’re bones, but people I’ve known?”, Father Hale leaned in closer to Stiles, his breath a warm echo against his neck,”that’s more information that I’m willing to give”.

Stiles would’ve given anything for time to stop, to freeze the moment, the warm hand on his neck, gripping lightly, sending sparks along his spine, the warm breath against his skin. But he wasn’t able to do that kind of magic. Not yet. And Father Hale was already leaning away, blinking his eyes, seemingly trying to clear his mind of something.

They worked through the morning, going upstairs to sit side by side on the couch, Derek flipping through books, handing them to Stiles, prompting him to ask as many questions as he could come up with. Which was a lot. Around one Stiles’ stomach made the most embarrassing sound known to the universe, so he got up quickly, twisting his neck and throwing up his arms to stretch. His t-shirt hitched up, revealing a sliver of the flat toned abdomen that made  Derek glance at the clock on the wall, suggesting that maybe they needed lunch if they hoped to have functioning brains.

And what do you know, food was one of Stiles’ favourite things. They closed the shop for an hour, and Stiles led them to his favourite place around the corner. In 10 minutes they were sitting in a booth, glasses of water in front of them, browsing the menus.

“So, what’s good here? I’m sensing from the greeting we got coming in that you come here often?”, Derek glanced around the restaurant, taking in the wooden tables, clean lines of the place, the hipsterish vibe of the room. It seemed very - Stiles. Young and cool, interesting but not trying too hard.

“Well, they have lunch specials that never disappoint. I usually have  a soup and one of their amazing sandwiches - but honestly, everything’s good”, Stiles took a sip from his glass, “and yes, I come here all the time, but dude, I’m pretty sure the enthusiastic greeting wasn’t meant for me since that’s never happened before”.  
Derek looked up from his menu, which was actually just a single sheet of paper, eyebrows lifting towards his  hairline. Stiles gestured at him, wiggling his fingers, trying very hard not to slap Father Hale with his menu.

“Really? Really?!”, Stiles almost screeched, “no one is that clueless, no one. The whole staff, including the chef, are staring at you from the counter", he nodded towards the back of the restaurant.

“Have you SEEN you?” Stiles was staring at the Father with such a look of disbelief, it made the other man look bashful.  
“Oh, that’s how it is”, Stiles scoffed, “you KNOW but you’re not letting it affect you, being all holy and a man of god”.  
Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he thought the staff in the restaurant next door could probably hear it.

Derek fixed a stern glare at Stiles, trying to get over the sudden smugness at making Stiles flail, combined with what seemed a more appropriate feeling - embarrassment. Damn right he knew, he wasn’t stupid. But still, he was surprised every time someone paid attention to him.

“Well, as a priest, I’m used to all kinds of human emotions, but being admired is not a thing that usually comes with the territory”, he stated, looking for a diplomatic way to skirt around the topic altogether, “I can’t help the way I look, but to be honest, I’m not interested in how people perceive me. Since it has no importance to me”.

“So, what, you’ve never used your looks as a tool? As a weapon, never had any flings before becoming a priest?”, Stiles leaned in closer, his eyes glinting,“no seduction techniques to get into places?”

“Stiles, you’ve been watching way too many spy movies”, Derek shut down the topic, signalling for the waiter who had been hovering near their table, staring at Derek for awhile now, “let’s order lunch, I’m starving”.

Stiles really wanted to push the topic, find out if Father Hale had ever had anyone, as a teenager, before becoming celibate.  Had the man ever taken advantage of what he had. But the rigid shoulders and firm line of his  mouth told Stiles  that it would be pushing it too far, the Father was uncomfortable so he let it go. For now. He wished they could talk freely, that Father Hale wasn’t, well, a priest. Since he liked the man, actually found it appealing, the mystery and the stern glares. Maybe Stiles was a masochist, the more someone shut him out the more he wanted in.

The sun was warming them gently when they walked back to the shop, sharing a surprisingly comfortable silence. A few customers came in right after Stiles flipped the “We’re open” sign towards the street, as Derek disappeared  to the back to make coffee. After finding a book on Norwegian trolls for a man in his 50’s and selling prayer candles to a couple from Oklahoma, Stiles was greeted with a warm mug of coffee. Father Hale climbed back upstairs, glancing behind him to make sure Stiles would follow. Like Stiles would ever not follow that ass in those jeans. And there he went again, having inappropriate thoughts about a priest. What was his damage?

Upstairs, Stiles headed to the section about known demons in different religions, Derek trying to clear the green couch of  books. Stiles’ fingers were running along the shelves, head tilting to read the titles, muttering to himself when Derek leaned over him, pointing at a book to his left, high above on the top shelf.

“That’s what we need, I think it’s pretty out there, but if you’re digging into the demon aspect, you need to read that”,  
Derek’s hand was resting on Stiles’ lower back, steady and warm, but the look on the man’s face was calm and fixed on the book. He nodded towards Stiles, urging him to grab it. All Stiles really wanted to do was stay right there, enjoy the warm palm against his back that had apparently gone there without any thought. The eyebrows were at it again, burrowing together in confusion. “Lazy ass can't reach it?”, Derek asked. Stiles stayed still, trying to enjoy the moment no matter how stupid he looked right now. The priest had no idea, did he?

Derek reached for the book, his hand leaving the place it seemed to fit so well. The warmness lingered like a ghost Stiles wanted to hunt down and maybe capture. Grabbing the book Derek took it to the couch, plopped down sliding into a relaxed position, legs spread, fiddling through the pages. Glancing at Stiles he patted the place next to him, an open smile on his face. The man looked relaxed and soft, he had no idea how one touch could affect someone. Or maybe - Stiles’ brain suggested - he didn’t even realise touching Stiles at all. Since that seemed like something the Father would not do. He was trying to keep things professional. So what was this?

Stiles felt confused, sitting next to the priest, trying his hardest not to get too close but that battle was lost. The books were still cornering them from all sides, Stiles’ thigh firmly planted against the thigh next to him. Yep, this was his own personal hell.

“Are you Catholic?”, Derek asked quietly, tilting his head towards Stiles. And that was a talk Stiles wasn’t prepared to have, but yeah, priests, so it wasn’t actually surprising.

“Aah, my mother, she was Polish, so yes, I guess I am. But not practicing, haven’t been to church after she -- “, Stiles paused for a moment, “after she died. Didn’t seem important, and well, my dad and I, there really was no point.”  
Stiles stared straight ahead, trying to not get too emotional, which he always did when he mentioned his mom. Was this the moment when Father Hale would switch on his priest-mode, be comforting and talk about God’s great plan? Stiles surely hoped not, since he would not hear any of that shit. In his mind, a great injustice had happened, and God and all the rest could just leave him the hell alone.

Stiles felt a warmth  spreading all over his body, as Father Hale leaned  heavily into his space, “I’m sorry”.  
Derek stayed silent for a moment, just leaning closer, offering comfort in the form of a body that felt like a furnace,  
“I didn’t know, and while I do know what it’s like to lose your parents, I feel like I’m intruding. I only asked since I thought you might want to come to church tomorrow. Listen to the sermon, and afterwards, we could do something that’s the total opposite of everything we’ve done today. Since we’ll be spending the day together, so something- fun?”.

Stiles was concentrating so hard on not grabbing  the priest by his  t-shirt and just pulling the man on top of him, since the closeness was making him dizzy with want, that it took him a while to realise what he had suggested. A sermon, followed by something not related to the case? Like, Father Hale actually wanted to hang out with him? Yes, a thousand times yes. Stiles felt bad, wanting to spend every moment with the man he could get, purely out of selfish reasons. The other man obviously was just trying to form some kind of bond, going outside his comfort zone, meeting Stiles half way between the church that was his life and Stiles’ world that was anything but.

The cruelest joke in the world was the effect Father Hale’s warm, firm body had on Stiles, leaning comfortingly against his side. It made him warm, offering what the priest seemed to think was emotional support. In reality, it was just making Stiles’ body hum, skin tingle and his mouth go dry. Father Hale smelled like cookies and clean laundry, which Stiles found odd. He wasn’t sure he could handle this, feeling the weird energy and pull between them, but Father Hale seemed quite oblivious to it.

Derek sensed the tension in the body next to him, his wolf wanting to lean even closer, to comfort and touch, to soothe. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten so close to Stiles. While Derek used words to offer guidance and solace, his wolf had more of a hands on approach to  things. Or at least, when it came to Stiles. Derek noticed the way he was leaning against the other man, so close, his mouth dipping towards the long pale neck, his hand drawing small slow circles on Stiles’ thigh, almost like scenting him.  

He’d never lost sight of his wolf so completely, the wolf usually staying in the back seat, oblivious to the pull someone had on him. Because  that had never happened before. Derek was always aware of his surroundings, careful of his actions, but most of all, respectful of personal boundaries and most importantly, his own.

He didn’t feel, touch, want. And here he was, leaning in, wanting to kiss the moles on Stiles’ cheek, to run his tongue along that long column on his neck. Derek jerked back in pure panic, standing up quickly, feeling the need for something that was wrong slithering down his spine. He blamed the wolf, but the wolf was him. It was his desire he needed to tamp down, to drown, to control. And while this was new to him, he was sure he could do it. With prayers and faith, going back to what mattered the most. And what mattered wasn’t Stiles, not the confused and startled man next to him, eyes wide, reaching out to Derek.

“Is… uh, what happened, I, are you alright?”, Stiles stuttered, seeming flushed.

“I need to go, I didn’t realise it was this late. You’ll close up the shop and head straight home, right?, “ Derek said, reaching deep to calm his voice and reassure Stiles.  
“I do want you to come to the church tomorrow. But, you know, it’s not necessary - I understand if you don’t want to. Since, uh, religion is a personal matter and some find it, frankly, boring. I can come pick you up after mass, if that’s what you prefer”.

The priest started down the stairs when Stiles finally managed to get up from the couch, his mind screaming  after the warmth he’d just felt. What a fuck up he was, finding something so comforting and tempting, just to lose it, since it was never meant for him in the first place. It was a mistake on his part, to enjoy it so much. And Father Hale had  obviously realised  that Stiles had enjoyed it too much.

“I’ll come.  I’m not sure of the etiquette; when to stand up or sit down and I’ll probably start snoring midway through the mass, but I’ll be there.”, he managed to say, his heart hammering in his chest and his mind still lingering on the fingers drawing circles on his thigh.

Derek glanced behind him, halfway down the stairs, with a look Stiles couldn’t interpret. It seemed hopeful but, somehow, beaten. Like he had failed at something, but Stiles couldn’t figure out what it was. He needed a “Father Hale - English” dictionary.

“The mass  starts at 10 AM, you can sit in the back, have the  communion, and I promise afterwards we’ll do something ”. Derek lifted his shoulders, “I’m not sure, what do normal people do?”

Stiles stared at the confused, handsome man standing on the stairs, eyes flitting from Stiles’ face to his hands and to the bookshelves. He wasn’t sure how to react. What he wanted was to take the man into his arms and never let go, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed. But he’d been asked to attend a sermon, reminding him that the man opposite him was in fact, a priest. Who was helping him. And was offering support and comfort since that was what priests did. The effect he had on Stiles was not intentional, Stiles was sure of that. The closeness was  almost an afterthought, something werewolves did without a thought. And Stiles was reading way too much into it, making the priest uncomfortable with his emotional reaction to the physical contact, which Stiles was sure he could sense with his stupid wolf senses.

In other words, Stiles was fucked. He was ridiculously, irrevocably drawn to the priest, his touch, his body, his careful yet sassy character. Great.

Derek walked down the narrow steps, grabbing his jacket along the way. Lifting his gaze to Stiles, he said softly,“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m glad you’re coming, knowing it’s not easy for you”.

Derek turned, opening the door, but suddenly sighing, glancing over his shoulder, “my name is Derek”. And with that, Derek walked out the door, leaving Stiles standing on the stairs, mind screaming for him to come back, to not leave, to stay.


	5. V

What do you wear when you’re going to a Sunday mass? Stiles had no idea, but he was pretty sure that his usual t-shirts wouldn’t cut it this time. Not that he cared one way or the other, but he felt the need to look presentable and nice, adult. Standing in front of his closet, staring at his clothes, he realised he was trying to make an impression, on Derek, and he was not okay with that. He’d spent the night playing the conversations over and over in his head. Analysing every little brush and touch Derek had instigated - Stiles was pretty sure he was making half of this stuff up. It had to be a werewolf thing - the calming, scenting, the casual touching. Scott hugged him all the time. But Stiles really wanted, needed, it to be something more . But like most things in life, he didn’t think life would adapt to his wishes.

Deciding on a black button up with rolled up sleeves and dark jeans Stiles felt presentable enough, at least in a way of not sticking out of the crowd. Was there a crowd? How popular was this whole going-to-church-on-Sunday thing? Entering through the wide doors he realised that yes, this is where all the people apparently hanged out, at least the ones not having a terrible hangover. The rows were starting to fill up so Stiles skirted quickly  to the left to grab a seat at the end of the last row. The seat was perfect since while no one would pay him any attention if he fell asleep, he could see the front of the church clearly.

Once things quieted down Father John walked to the pulpit. Stiles saw Father Hale - Derek - standing on the right side of the altar, wearing his black cassock, sans the leather belt. He looked good, which wasn’t actually news, but Stiles was surprised all the same. It was almost like Stiles forgot what Father H… Derek, actually looked like. As if his imagination made up a perfect image of unattainable proportions. But Derek was real, standing there quietly, watching the crowd with a blank face, sometimes glancing over to Father John who was talking about temptations.

Now wasn’t that appropriate, Stiles thought bitterly, to put the biggest temptation in his life right in front of  him, on display, wearing clothes that stated clearly that the object of his affection and lust was out of his reach. He could write a book on the subject by now, feeling the crushing injustice grip his insides as he realised  he’d only known Derek for 2 days. Why was his skin tingling every time he even thought about the man? What was so special, besides the looks, about him that Stiles could hardly think about anything else?

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.”

The words of Father John echoed in Stiles’ brain, taking root, digging in. He wasn’t religious in any sense of the word, but he still found  some comfort in the scents and atmosphere of the service. It reminded him of his mom, and that was enough for Stiles. But being used to forging his own destiny, fighting the unthinkable and following the rules he usually made up as he went, Stiles’ mind whirled around the words. Was there a way out of this? Could he let Derek just go, be his friend maybe, a professional acquaintance? All signs pointed to a firm no. He had a thirst that was not going away, the heat just beneath his skin burning like flames. Maybe they were flames. Maybe Stiles was headed straight to hell for what he was yearning. He’d never been in love, not really. And now his heart had chosen the most inappropriate person.

He’d watched his father struggle through life after he lost his wife, cementing the idea of true love deep in Stiles’ heart. And that made him the biggest sap of all time, he knew that. But nothing on this earth was going to stop him from at least figuring out why this particular man, a priest no less, dragged these feelings and thoughts out of him, from the moment they met. Stiles believed in destiny, and he was in a church, so it felt fitting. His future actions were not approved by God, he was sure of that, but he would not back down. Not until he heard from Derek himself that he’d crossed the line.

People started to rise from their seats and Stiles scrambled quickly behind them - a line was forming, snaking through the aisle and Stiles recognised the ritual taking place at the altar. Holy Communion, Stiles knew, was something he shouldn’t be a part of since he had never ever even made a confession.  Glancing at the altar, he saw Derek staring at him, eyebrows raised while the peacefully moving line was going forward. Stiles shook his head slowly, raising his hands up, signalling his refusal. The man at the altar seemed to huff, a smile spreading across his face, nodding encouragingly for Stiles to join the line. How could Stiles say no? He was so going to hell.

It took a minute for Stiles to realise that Father Hale was handing out the wafers, placing them gently on people’s tongues. Stiles nearly tripped over his feet, coming to a full stop, trying to swerve away from the line. But that wasn’t happening since the old lady behind him simply nudged him forward, a stern look fixed on his face.  Apparently leaving the line once you were on it wasn’t acceptable church behaviour. So Stiles decided, to hell with it, time to push the envelope, at least for once take whatever he could. Maybe there was a seat waiting for him down below, but it would be worth it.

Suddenly Derek was standing right in front of him, staring intently, a gentle smile playing on his lips, nodding for Stiles to step forward. Stiles’ legs felt like noodles, coming to a wobbling halt just a breath away from the priest.

He opened his mouth, pushing his tongue out slightly like he’d seen other people do. Derek’s eyes seemed to flash purple, pupils dilating, chasing away the purple shimmer while he carefully placed the white wafer on Stiles’ tongue. Stiles couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his head tilting slightly forward, his lips closing around the thumb in his mouth, sucking gently while keeping his eyes fixed on the priest’s. The voice in the back of his mind, that had scolded Stiles for lusting after this man, was suddenly quiet. Everything felt muted, making it seem they were the only two people in the church. To Stiles’ surprise Derek didn’t flinch, didn’t jerk his hand back, instead his eyes zeroed in on Stiles’ lips.  Derek pulled out his thumb slowly, pausing on Stiles’ lips, caressing the bottom lip with a smoothing motion.  Resting his fingers gently on Stiles’ jaw he tilted the chin up,  while leaning towards him, head bowing down. Stiles could feel the thumb sliding across his lip, gently. Stiles held his breath, trying to make the time stand still, anticipating, heart thundering for the priest’s next move. He felt cold, the moment suddenly gone. The fingers that had been resting against his jaw were slipping away, Derek straightening himself abruptly with a look of pure agony on his face.

“The body of Christ”, the priest said with a broken voice.

“Amen”, Stiles sighed, forcing his feet to move to the right towards the chalice. He needed so much more than a small sip of wine right about now.  
Stiles' heart was pounding, blood rushing through his veins with a roaring sound and he wanted to run. Run so far that he’d never have to face what he’d just done, to see the disappointment on Derek’s face, to never have to hear how far across the line he had gone. Stiles couldn’t explain it, and he doubted he ever could. Feeling Derek’s fingers lingering on his lips had made his mind go blank, made his body take over. It had felt so natural, to be that close, that intimate with him, it was like his brain took a vacation at the most inconvenient time.

Stiles felt a blush rising in his neck, skulking back to his seat, resolutely not lifting his gaze to look at  Derek. Had he managed to make Derek lose his balance, tip him over? Would Derek be annoyed, mad or something else? The mass was almost over, the congregation  gathering to greet the priests. Stiles put his experience to good use, looking for escape routes that didn’t include the front door. The church was not built for disappearing acts, he noted grimly, seeing Derek fix a stern glare on him over the head of some woman who was definitely not checking the priest out. So, mostly mad. Not that he would actually leave, he had to fix this and keep his commitments, no matter how humiliating the talk would be.

Once the priests had said their goodbyes to everyone, the space seemed horribly quiet. This is the soundtrack of my doom, Stiles thought - utter silence.  Father John came to greet Stiles, smiling gently like he always did,  
“So, nice to see you here Stiles, especially since I know this is not your usual cup of tea”, he noted, nodding towards Derek.

“I heard you have some plans for today, so enjoy. Father Hale could sure use some time outside the church,” he chuckled lightly, turning towards the front, waving his hand for goodbye.

Derek looked furious, hands clenched by his sides, eyes shifting between purple and hazel green, jaw tight, obviously reining in his raging wolf. Stiles could feel the power rumbling through him, wanted to get away from the stare, the conversation. He’d fucked up so badly, there was nothing he could say. Stiles only hoped his death would be swift - Derek was, after all, a skilled assassin. Surely he knew how to kill efficiently and painlessly.

“You, come with me, NOW”, Derek ground out, voice laced with steel, turning on his heels and disappearing through the corridors, not even looking back to Stiles. For a second Stiles thought about making a run for it. He realised he could never in his life outrun a werewolf without casting some serious magic. 

Walking with slow steps towards his doom, following Derek to his quarters, Stiles thought how he could spin this. He’d fought and survived things most people didn’t know were real, had faced many embarrassing moments during high-school. But rejection, he rarely handled that well. Rejection or disappointment from Derek? Yeah, pretty much the suckiest thing that could happen to him. But more importantly, he felt he’d crossed the line, made things up in his head, given into the temptation he knew he should be able to handle. Rejection, shame, it was all the same pile of agony Stiles was ready to roll in.

The moment Stiles entered the room he felt two strong hands gripping his shirt. Stiles was pinned against the wall, a furious werewolf with glowing eyes rumbling mere inches from his face. The seam of the cabinet door he was thrown against was digging into his back but Stiles had no intention of mentioning the fact right now. He had more important things to worry about, like surviving. This was not his first rodeo with wolfed out creatures, so Stiles went limp. He dropped his flailing arms to his sides, slowly turning his eyes to the floor, twisting his head just a bit to reveal his neck.

“What the hell do you think you were doing?!”, Derek shouted, his voice punching through Stiles like he was made of paper.

“Are you having fun? Testing me, playing some weird game? Why would you do something like that, in a church, with a priest?” Derek shook Stiles with each question, making Stiles’ head hit the cabinet door.

Derek was fighting hard to regain his composure, closing his eyes, breathing deep, hands still gripping the shirt like steel rods. Stiles wasn’t going anywhere, standing absolutely still, waiting for Derek to reign in the wolf. He had no words, no way to explain this without looking like a horny fool. Honesty was the best policy, right? Stiles wasn’t so sure.

“Just, just stop with the manhandling, please”, Stiles pleaded softly, still not looking directly at Derek. “I, uh, I have an explanation, I swear I do. And trust me, I’m not messing with you, I would never do that. I’m not an asshole, I’m just a delusional idiot”.  
Stiles  sighed, feeling the grip loosen but not releasing him. Okay, this was good. Now comes the part where he needs to humiliate himself and probably say goodbye to Derek for good. Nice.

Derek’s eyes were back to their mesmerising green, still staring at Stiles with a steely determination, body tight while he leaned closer to Stiles.

“Explain”.

Stiles licked his lips nervously, Derek’s gaze quickly tracking the movement, eyebrows drawing together in what seemed like anger. He pushed back from Stiles, still standing near but not touching, just hovering, waiting for an explanation.

“See, I, uh, I didn’t realise I was doing it?” Stiles made it sound like a question, perking his eyebrows up. “This is going to sound terrible, and I’m sorry, truly am, but ah”, Stiles sighed, “No, I can’t do this. “  
He tried to move away, but was once again pushed up against the door, a steady hand putting pressure on his chest.

“Okay okay, jeez, okay”, Stiles screeched, “I knew what I was doing, okay? I, just really couldn’t find it in me to stop myself. The truth is, and this is me making a total fool of myself, but I feel drawn to you. There’s something special about you, like a current between us, and while my brain tells me this is not something I should want, I can’t keep myself from feeling it. I’m trying and will keep on trying, but, just you know… sorry about the momentary relapse”.

He felt terrible, the blush pushing from his neck to his cheeks, he could feel his face burning. Stiles averted his eyes and looked down. He found himself staring at Derek’s chest, which seemed amazingly still. Was the man even breathing anymore? He glanced quickly at Derek, seeing a look on the man’s face which he could not decipher. Somewhere between utter devastation and pain, but softer, like Derek was regretting something.

Derek backed away slowly, lowering his hands until they hanged uselessly by his side.  
“I. Well - that’s new, “ Derek whispered, mostly to himself, still staring at Stiles with eyes that seemed dark, forest green, almost like liquid. He wasn’t crying but the shine made him seem vulnerable.

“That’s all?” Stiles tilted his head, surprised by the mild reaction, “that’s all you have to say? No shouting, no lectures? Nothing?”

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly gathering all his inner peace,taking a deep breath. But still he stayed quiet.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure this is all in my head, and probably one-sided, but the connection is there.”, Stiles wanted to fill the silence, and for once he didn’t really mind what came out. He’d already put everything out there, there was honestly nothing to lose anymore.  
“And the touching and glances, that’s just me, right? I’m making stuff up,” Stiles yanked at his hair, feeling the back of his head carefully to see if the rough treatment had actually made a bump in his skull.  
“But then you wanted to spend today with me as well, and I just thought you liked me? At least as a friend. And I know, I know”, Stiles threw his hands up when Derek’s eyebrows started reaching for his hairline,

“I know being friends is definitely not an okay reason to do what I did, but like I said, I just lost it. I have no control apparently. I lost it for a moment. Can we get past this, please? I promise I - I’ll get over this if you will”.  
Stiles stopped, taking a deep breath, leaning against the wall, searching for support.

Derek turned away, sitting on the bed, leaning his elbows to his knees lowering his head.  
“Stiles, I’m sorry. Have I been giving mixed signals? Maybe. I can’t believe this is happening”. He lifted his eyes to look at Stiles, “I’m extremely protective, the touching… I, I have no excuses. Yes, maybe I stepped out of line since my wolf is very hands on when it comes to guarding someone. This was never my intention, I’m a priest after all. A werewolf yes, so the need to get close sometimes seems to sneak up on me, but I swear this is all work-related for me. This has never happened before. I don't quite understand it.”

Stiles couldn’t understand what he was hearing. Just wait.  
“Guarding? Yeah, I mean sure, we’re working together but all weekend? You said it yourself, we should do something not involving the case”, Stiles was getting nervous. How wrong had he read the situation? Derek didn’t want to spend the day with him?

“I thought it was clear. The protection, the need for me to be with you as much as possible?” Derek stood up, tilting his head, looking more like a confused puppy than anything. It would’ve been adorable, but Stiles' stomach felt like a cold stone was setting to the bottom.

“Deaton didn’t explain this to you, did he?” Derek huffed, almost laughed, eyes widening in understanding. “I, oh my god, he never tells anyone anything does he?”

Stiles' mind was scrambling, connecting the dots. The email, Derek being there far more than the preliminary research required. Because it seemed a bit odd, Stiles was a research guru. He didn't actually need guidance, just a direction and he'd take it from there. Derek staying with him, urging him to go straight home to his well-protected apartment from work.  
An apprentice was missing. An apprentice. Stiles was an apprentice. Connected to Deaton and by default, to the church. Derek was a crazy strong werewolf ninja assassin priest, created to protect and destroy.

“You’re my bodyguard?!” Stiles all but shouted, “you’re scenting me for this? You’re spending this time with me, not to educate me but to keep an eye on me?”  
Well, the blush was gone, the embarrassment was gone, so kudos for that. This was actually a babysitting job for an overqualified protector, to keep Stiles out of harm's way.  
Derek lifted his palms towards Stiles, inching closer, a concerned look on his face,

“Stiles, just please, calm down. It’s both. You need to know these things, for the future. But for now, the most important thing is to keep you safe, and well, alive. You're far too important”.  
Derek’s voice was calm and even, searching Stiles’ eyes, looking for contact.  Stiles was having none of it.

“I don't’ need a babysitter, dammit! I can take care of myself, and I want to help, to learn. I’m just being pushed aside, to wait until it’s all over? Fuck that. I understand  if my help isn’t needed, it’s not like I need to get involved. But to have someone keep constant watch? No thanks to that.”

Stiles started walking towards the door, hand gripping the handle, turning halfway back. “You know, if only someone had told me. I wouldn’t have been looking for things that were never there. This is all a terrible misunderstanding, I get it now. The touching and bonding? Of course you’d do that, it helps you, to get close...to do your job.  And don’t blame yourself, like you said, Deaton never tells anyone anything”.

Stiles walked through the door without looking back, trying his hardest to keep his breathing calm and steady. So, the somewhat terrible confession of attraction had turned into something more crushing. The realisation that Derek was just doing his job, protecting him, not preparing him for the case and getting to know him, felt far worse than actually having a stupid crush on the man. It was one thing to have feelings for someone who was wholly unattainable while hoping the attraction he was feeling wasn’t one-sided. He could deal with that. But to be totally clueless about the reasons why Derek was acting the way he was. Stiles felt betrayed. By whom, he wasn’t even sure. But he knew without a doubt his heart had been cracked into pieces, without ever even having the chance to find out what could’ve been. He rushed out of the church, to his apartment and not even getting undressed he dove to his bed, pulling the cover over his head.


	6. VI

He listened to the footsteps getting quieter, standing completely still in the middle of the room until he heard Stiles slam the heavy front doors of the church behind him. The moment he was sure he was alone, Stiles not returning, Derek fell to his knees beside the bed. Hands caressing the soft material of the bedspread his fingers slid into a familiar position. He wanted to pray but his mind was blank. Heart thundering in his chest, Derek found no words to say to his God, the echoing beat drowning everything in its wake.

He had lied. He had lied to Stiles to protect himself, to ease his own desire, to push the lingering flames, the burn, away. He had felt the want licking along his spine, the heat trying to push through and Stiles had been right. Stiles had confronted him and then apologised, made a fool of himself, put himself out on a limb and Derek had let him. Derek had let him and left him there, hanging, pushed him over the edge with lies. Derek wanted to roar, tear something. He wanted to scream - maybe cry, but his eyes were dry. He could feel them burning bright, unable to control the wolf that was clawing underneath, howling to get out, to go after Stiles. His skin was full of thorns, pricking underneath, tearing his flesh open. The desire was pushing through from his heart.  This is what it felt like, to want Stiles. Stiles made him ache from the inside and  denying him ripped Derek open to the core.

Lying wasn’t the problem - white lies and half truths was a way to deal with most things in his job. Lying to Stiles, Derek never wanted to do that again. The cold truth was, Derek had been ordered to keep Stiles safe, to watch over him. He’d thought Stiles knew about the danger of being an apprentice. Being the next most likely target of the Old Ones. That would’ve been easily dealt with. The problem, and the lie, was the way Derek felt about him. How he unconsciously felt drawn to the man, wanting to put his hands all over him, keep him close, mark him, inhale the air around him deep into his lungs. It was painfully obvious how perfect Stiles was, for him.

But Stiles had bought the lie, which seemed a bit odd considering he knew about werewolves. Stiles knew about their habits, which only went to show that he had been more than a little shaken by the betrayal. Stiles was strong, but in the matters of the heart, he obviously had a fragile sense of self - buying the rejection and the excuses way too easily, without trusting his instincts. That only made it worse. Derek had expected Stiles to call him out on his bullshit, to cut through the weak  surface and point out the cracks of his plan. But instead, Stiles had given in, given up. Absorbed the words at face value, pulled them inside himself and believed  that he had made it all up, that the feelings were his own design.

The guilt tore Derek apart bit by bit, his forehead nearly resting on top of his still entwined fingers. He could stay like this forever, asking and looking for answers he knew his God would not give him. This was Derek’s mess, his own making, not something to be fixed by praying. When had he gotten so lost? Derek didn’t want to reprimand himself for having feelings - it would be foolish to think his wolf wasn’t a part of him. He’d never needed to fight so hard to push down his emotions, never had to wait for the want to disappear. The problem was, the need didn’t go away.

When Stiles had stood before him, opening his mouth, Derek’s mind had gone blank. All he’d wanted was to push his fingers inside, to feel the heat of Stiles’ mouth around him. How could he blame Stiles? Had he not wanted this? Had he not let his fingers linger. Had he not leaned in closer, breathing in the air that was so Stiles - electricity, honey and home? Derek had wanted to close the gap, kiss those lips that were sucking his thumb, force the mouth open to claim it, grip the jaw tighter to tilt Stiles’ head up. Stiles had given him exactly what he wanted and he’d pushed him away with lies, ripping his dignity to shreds in the process. Derek never wanted to leave his room again. How was he going to fix this?

The painful truth was, he needed to keep up the charade. To keep Stiles safe, if the man was ever actually going to give him the chance to do his job again. Derek had dealt with guilt all his life, this was merely another brick to add to the wall he put around himself. But this one felt particularly heavy, the blame setting firmly between Derek’s shoulder blades, making his spine tense up, his wolf angry. The guilt he could deal with, that was the blood running through his veins, feeding his mind to push forward. The desire, the want - that he’d have to work at harder. To continue business as usual, he needed to  steady his heart, treat Stiles carefully, try to fix what he had broken. How could Stiles let him near him again, believing he’d made it all up in his mind? Could he swallow his pride, his feelings, in order to stay safe? Derek doubted that. Stiles didn’t seem like the kind of man to sit on the sidelines but he was a professional. For the first time in his life, Derek wasn’t so sure of  himself, of his control.

He took off his cassock and hung it neatly in the closet. Stepping under the hot spray of the shower, he leaned his forehead against the cool tiles. The steady thrum of the beating water on his back did nothing to soothe his nerves, enjoying the warmth sliding down his back was not enough, the yearning  was still there. Closing his eyes Derek lowered his hand to his already half hard cock, experimentally sliding his palm along the shaft. The first slide sent sparks down his legs, making them tremble, the desire pushing through his skin. He allowed himself this, this was something he could have instead of the one thing he wanted. Needed.

Derek gripped his dick harder, trying to keep a steady slow rhythm, flicking his thumb across the head, pushing gently down the slit, the heat pooling in his belly and making his head dizzy. He wasn’t going to last, no matter how slow he wanted to make it. He wanted to enjoy the unfamiliar feeling he’d forgotten. It was too much, the scent of Stiles still lingering in his mind, seeing those honey brown eyes looking at him. He imagined those perfect pink lips opening underneath his gaze, waiting. Waiting for whatever Derek wanted to give him.

Derek stroked faster, the want tugging down his spine, edging along his back, sliding down between his crack - he wanted Stiles’ hands there, gripping his ass, slipping one of those long fingers inside him. He imagined Stiles behind him, biting his neck gently, hand snaking around him, grounding him, making him dissolve into  the warm water and putting him back together again. He could feel Stiles’ breath on his back, those strong hands grabbing him, stroking him, pushing him to the wall. He wanted to hear Stiles say his name, praise him, love him, slide his fingers inside him with achingly slow speed until Derek could think of nothing but Stiles. Derek pushed into his hand, quickly, not able to control the rhythm any longer, chasing the release. He was so near to the edge, afraid of the fall. Derek’s rhythm faltered, imagining Stiles sliding into him, deep, the release emptying his mind. He could almost feel Stiles there, the pleasure climbing through his limbs being pure Stiles, a spark that made him roar when he came, the hot liquid hitting his hand, the tiles. Derek nearly sobbed, the spark pushing everything around him to the background, the white stillness washing over him. This was what peace felt like, he thought, complete surrender. Only one thing could make it better. Derek knew he’d crossed some invisible line, in his mind, he knew what he needed, always had. Finding it was a surprise, a gift he hadn’t asked for.

Giving in, accepting the truth and being true to himself was another thing. His wolf had made its mind up. Derek could either follow or resist and carry on with the commitments he’d made before. Drying himself off and walking naked to his bed he wondered if it was  possible to be happy and miserable at the same time - about the same thing.


	7. VII

The loud banging on the door woke Stiles up from his restless sleep. He glanced at at the clock, 11.30 AM, and dug deeper into the pillow dragging the duvet over his head. This shit was not acceptable, it was his day off. In addition to that, his heart had been broken and Stiles wanted nothing to do with the outside world. Even thinking about the conversation with Derek made his stomach lurch in the most nerve-wracking way. He was not facing anyone today.

The duvet was promptly ripped off of him, the glare of the midday sun blinding him in full force. Against the beams filtering through the window, he could see a cloud of blond curls, high above him.

“Isaac, I’m regretting giving you a key. I need it back. Leave it in the hall and get out”, Stiles grumbled, voice like gravel, throat dry. He made a shooing motion towards a smirking Isaac, who was waving a coffee cup in his hand.

“You sure about that my friend? I mean, this is a nice cup of coffee, from Papa Joe’s. Buuuut, if you really don’t want it….”, Isaac made a motion to take a sip from the cup and that made Stiles bounce up. Quickly. Day off or not, Papa Joe made the best damn coffee in the neighbourhood, and it would be wasted on someone like Isaac - a tea drinker.  
“Jesus Chr….just give it to me!”, Stiles grabbed the cup, nestling it against his chest. “What are you doing here anyway? Did we have plans? And if we did, let me tell you, they are cancelled”. Gingerly he took a sip from the steaming cup, enjoying the deliciousness soothing his throat - it ached, like he had been crying. He wasn’t going to think about that.

Isaac walked to the living room, dropping his jacket on the couch. After taking a water bottle from the fridge he returned to the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe.  
“Scott called me last night. You’ve been in bed for the last 24 hours. He demanded that you need some company today since he’s in BH. Apparently you sent him some texts last night?”

Stiles sighed; he had indeed sent a couple of texts to Scott last night. About Derek. He’d felt vulnerable and Scott always had something positive to say.

Well, usually. Not this time though, unless you count threatening to beat the crap out of a priest comforting. Stiles doubted Scott could beat Derek - Derek had muscles and faith and probably superpowers and… so not going there again.  
Instead, he glanced at Isaac, shrugging his shoulder vaguely, “How much do you know?”

“Enough”, Isaac said with a grimace. “Hearts breaking all over, embarrassing, and or, inappropriate situations, misunderstandings and the like”.

“So, what’s your plan? Eat ice-cream and watch some ‘my heart has been torn to shreds’ movie together? Because, that I can manage on my own. And let me tell you, it doesn’t work”, Stiles huffed under his breath. He didn’t need company. His head felt heavy from (possibly) crying, tossing and turning in his bed till the early hours, playing things over and over in his head. What Stiles wanted was Derek, and since that wasn’t going to happen, he needed peace and quiet. Maybe some ice-cream.

“No, not exactly”, Isaac interrupted Stiles’ thoughts, grabbing him by the arm, hoisting him up with his stupid werewolf powers and pushing him towards the shower. “We’re going out. Food and then a bar, maybe many. Movies are not doing the trick today, Scott informed me that the situation is dire. We need alcohol.”

Stiles stumbled to the bathroom, grumbling silently about werewolves and what's with the shoving. He had to admit the bar part of the day sounded good. Just what he needed, some mindless bar hopping, easy conversation and soothing elixirs to numb his brain. He could do this, totally. Maybe even find someone to take his mind off a certain stupidly hot werewolf. Just what the doctor ordered. And in this case, it was, since Scott was a veterinarian. So, close enough.

After almost backing out of the plan twice, Stiles found himself sitting in Nanti’s, the Indian place just around the corner.  The booth was nice, with worn soft benches and gentle light, wooden tables and horrible sitar music playing over the stereos. The food smelled delicious, and the cold beer in his hand felt nice too. Taking a long cooling sip he watched the man opposite him. Isaac looked good, as always, with his bright shy smile and hair that made him look like an angel. Talk about a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Stiles thought. Isaac had proved to be a fiercely loyal friend, an avid fighter and somewhat short-tempered sometimes. Just what Stiles needed right now.

Isaac sensed the stare, looking up from his plate which he was destroying at an alarming speed. “What? Not hungry? You should eat, you’re going to need it for what I have in mind”, he smirked, gesturing towards Stiles’ plate. Stiles shook his head, trying to form a smile but his lips felt frozen. The good thing about being amongst friends? Not having to pretend.

“No, I’ll eat. It’s just - ah, I wish I could stop my brain. Stop it from replaying things, it’s making me crazy, you know?” Stiles sighed, grabbing the fork, wiggling it between his fingers.

“So, how bad is it?”, Isaac asked, “how bad do you have it?”

Stiles snorted, now wasn’t that the perfect question. He’d thought about that, last night, wrapped in his duvet, trying to stop the sobs escaping his lips. How had he let himself fall so fast and hard? What was it about Derek that dug itself deep inside Stiles, breaking the flesh, sinking claws to his heart in a way that made Stiles question his self-control? And more alarmingly, losing his control. Yes, he’d had boyfriends. He’d been infatuated before - but this was, without question, something more. Being in Derek’s presence made Stiles go on autopilot, the draw of Derek pulling him in. Derek felt like home.  Safe and familiar, and at the same time irresistibly dangerous - a combination that most would say was impossible. It only made Stiles’ palms sweat and stomach tighten in a way that was not unpleasant in the least. And he’d let himself down, falling for a man who he knew he couldn’t have. But to make things worse, since that was how Stiles rolled, he’d thought he actually had a shot. For whatever reason he had been thinking Derek felt the same. He'd been reading the subtle signs and read them wrong. So wrong in fact that Stiles felt like moving out of the state would be a valid option to handle the situation right now.

None of this came out, of course, Stiles for once trying to make sense more than just throw words at people. “You know how you ‘weres’ have the sense of pack, and home?”, Stiles asked instead. “How you long for companionship and just know when you’ve met the right person?”

Isaac nodded slowly, taking a sip from his beer, eyes fixed gently on Stiles. Sure Isaac knew, Stiles thought, after all the shit he went through as a kid, until he’d met Scott and Stiles, and was old enough to live on his own. Isaac knew.

“That’s Derek. To me. As crazy as it sounds, I - he’s just something, to me, but obviously not what I originally thought. Maybe he’s a friend, a close one. A loyal ally, something. But the thing is, I feel more, it’s almost like I’m the wolf”, Stiles groaned, shaking his head.

“Last night, when I was waiting to fall asleep, I thought Derek is my fucking mate. And dude, I’m not a wolf. I’m not supposed to feel like this!”  
Isaac raised his eyebrows, leaning closer, “You know what that feels like?”.

“Of course I don’t know”, Stiles hands were now in full swing, holding the bottle while flailing around rapidly. “But this is what it should feel like. This spark, magnetic pull. It’s like a string, pulling in my chest - it’s as if Derek has his own fucking gravity field”. His forehead hit the table, making the plate jump.

Throwing money on the table Isaac got up, grabbed Stiles (once again) by the arm and marched him out of the restaurant. Muttering to himself Isaac spotted a hole-in-the-wall bar on the opposite side of the street and dragged Stiles there. Pushing Stiles down on the stool, Isaac ordered Coronas and shots of whiskey (with a nod to the bartender whispering “keep them coming”). He leaned in close to Stiles, handing him a beer.

“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like, being mated. Scott told me, when I - uh, asked”. Isaac was smiling but his eyes were serious.

“What?! How do you, what, I, no”, Stiles started sputtering, not sure how to handle this new confusing information. He took a steadying breath and tried again,  
“Let’s try this again, shall we. So, you asked Scott, since he’s with Kira, and he said exactly what?”

Isaac licked his lips, seeming a bit nervous, but continued anyway. “Ah, yeah. So. It’s something I was wondering, a while back, so I asked Scott if he could tell me what it felt like. Since he obviously knows - Kira and all, “ Isaac drank his whiskey in one big gulp, waved the bartender for more and pushed Stiles’ glass towards him, nodding for Stiles to catch up. Which he did.

“Scott said that it’s an irresistible pull, something you just recognise. But more than that, it’s home. To wolves, it smells like that, things reminding you of home but more. The funny thing is, Scott also talked about a string, connecting him and Kira. Like you did. So, I…”, Isaac lifted his shoulders, not knowing how to continue, seeing Stiles’ face.

Stiles was numb, surrounded by silence. And at the same time he was drowned by the hum in his ears. How was this happening? Maybe he was going crazy with pure lust, his mind conjuring up smells and metaphors to justify wanting a priest? God, he needed a drink. Maybe ten.

Gulping down the rest of his beer, Stiles nodded to the bartender realising something. “Why did you ask Scott about mates? You haven’t, you don’t actually have - anyone? Or, have you? Met someone?” 

Stiles felt like shit, again, for not noticing Isaac’s initial nervousness. Isaac looked uncomfortable, the attention and focus of the conversation now fixed on him.

“I, just, ah, I was curious? You know. Since, like you kindly stated, I haven’t met anyone. So I thought - had I missed something? Some blaring neon sign, let someone slip through, or was I just, you know, unlucky?” Isaac wasn't looking at Stiles, instead swirling the beer bottle between his hands, biting his lips. “But, you know, now I know, for sure. I’m just - waiting?”, corner of his mouth quirked up, “So I have plenty of time to play the field, try things out and hang out with you. Since you’re obviously not going to stop being a bachelor any time soon”.

The voice was serious but Stiles could see the amusement in Isaac’s eyes. What an asshole. Stiles had to laugh at that and wasn’t that a surprise. It felt good.

What was he complaining about? Sure, he might’ve accidentally found his mate, who wasn’t actually his mate at all. Only Stiles’ lust induced interpretation of a mate. Since, Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. And Derek had made it clear that the feelings weren’t mutual. But he had friends, an interesting job, a beer and yes, apparently whiskey, he nodded approvingly when another shot appeared in front of him.

“I love you man”, Stiles clapped his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, squeezing it hard. “This is why friends are the best. You’re an arrogant bastard at times, but I love you”.

The drinks were finally doing what they’re supposed to do, the world seeming softer and nicer - warmer. Stiles wanted to swim in whiskey. Every day.

“I don’t have a mate. That’s stupid. I have a spark, oh, I need to ask Deaton if the spark is messing up my mating game”,  Stiles nodded solemnly to Isaac, making a mental note of that. Like he would remember it the next morning.

“Let’s go somewhere else, I know just the place”, Stiles was already getting up, drinking the last drops of beer from his bottle and heading to the door. Isaac threw his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, hugging him tightly and grinning. Maybe this day could be saved after all.  
\- -

Derek was furious. He was positively steaming. After yesterday, after Stiles had stormed out of his room and left Derek there, on his knees, praying for something, help, closure, guidance. After all his explanations and… lies, Stiles should’ve known better. He should’ve known that the situation was dangerous. They didn’t call for the Three for nothing. But there Stiles was, out, drinking with a friend.

Derek was doing his job, like promised. As long as Stiles stayed in his home, he was safe. But here the man was, getting drunk, hopping from bar to bar, talking to strangers - flirting. Derek had decided to check up on Stiles in the morning, just to make sure he was alright and honouring their plan to stay safe. Not the case, as Derek found out, finding the man round the corner from his apartment, as he followed Stiles’ scent.

Derek sat in the corner of yet another club, keeping his distance and not giving into the impulse of dragging Stiles by his neck back to his flat, to safety. Instead, he took a sip from his coke, shooing away yet another man who approached him, offering to buy a drink. He watched Stiles talk with his friend (a werewolf, Derek noted) and a couple of men that were standing around the same high table. The bar was steaming hot, people shouting drink orders to the bartenders, the dance floor full of gyrating bodies (mostly men, since Isaac had taken Stiles to a gay bar). The music was so bad it made Derek’s ears bleed. Luckily he’d worn his out-of-office clothes, so he didn’t stand out like a sore thumb. Though, if the looks he was receiving were anything to judge by, Derek almost wished he’d worn the clerical collar - at least.

Stiles’ black t-shirt was clinging to his lean torso, the sweat pooling to the hollow of his throat. His brown hair was messed up, tousled in a way that made Derek take another sip of his coke. Stiles was holding the slim neck of the beer bottle between his long slender fingers, tilting his head back, swallowing the liquid pouring out, the column of his pale long throat glistening with sweat. One of the men was leaning closer to Stiles, talking, making Stiles laugh. Derek needed to break something. Maybe bones. A table would do.

****

Stiles was having a good time. The music was pumping a steady rhythm through his body, the beer cooling his insides and the man next to him seemed interested. Why not? Stiles thought, wanting to push any thoughts of Derek from his mind. He needed a distraction, he definitely didn’t want to think about eyes of undefinable colour. Not while in a bar filled with people, having a good time. Like him. So, yes. He was doing this. He followed the man with the dark hair and blue eyes to the dance floor, allowing the man to pull him close.

It felt good. The heat of another body. The music did its best to drown out any thoughts Stiles might’ve had, letting him lose himself to the rhythm. Isaac was next to him, laughing at something, dancing with a bunch of people but still glancing towards Stiles, making sure he was okay. Stiles felt good, he felt safe. What was everyone so worried about anyway?

Stiles felt a pair of strong hands grab him from behind, and Stiles leaned in, enjoying the firm body behind him as they swayed to the music.

“You wanna go somewhere a bit more quiet, somewhere, more private?”, the man with the blue eyes whispered in his ear. Hell yes. Stiles muted the voice in the back of his mind, screaming at him, pushing down the image of Derek. He needed this, he truly did.  
The man lead him through the crowd, holding his hand. 

All of a sudden Stiles felt wrong. He wanted to do this. But it was the wrong man he was following. They ended up in the alley behind the bar, the back door jammed open, so Stiles could actually see Isaac on the dance floor, watching him. The man got closer to him, leaned in kissing his neck. Stiles wanted to tilt his head back, give in to the feeling, but his mind was filling with images of someone else. Why can’t he have nice things, just this once?

The next moment Stiles heard a loud roar, followed by a sudden feeling of loss of heat. The man kissing his neck was pinned against the wall, arms flailing helplessly, a tortured look flitting across his handsome face. Derek, dressed in all black, was holding the man effortlessly against the wall, flames the colour of the moon pulsing across his hands. His eyes were furious, shining purple, fangs bared. The other man, who had been dancing with Isaac seconds ago, was on the ground, pinned there by a man’s boot - a man that Stiles had never seen before. The man wore all black, like Derek, and looked oddly familiar. The silver gray hair, the pale blue eyes - there was something, something Stiles recognised. Isaac was crouching down in front of Stiles, growling basically at everyone.

Stiles wasn’t feeling drunk at all, not anymore. He saw Derek’s hands make a twisting motion, feeling more than seeing the man’s neck snap, the body going limp, sliding down the wall. Derek turned around, glancing at the man still pinning down Isaac’s dance partner to the ground.

“He say anything yet?”, Derek ground out, holding out his palm to Isaac in order to make sure he wasn’t about to attack them, the palm still pulsing with shimmering flames.

“No, but I’ll get something. We’ve met before, the man with the silver hair huffed, smirking at Derek before fixing his pale eyes on Stiles.

“So, you’re the one causing all this trouble”, the man said, digging his boot deeper into the neck below him, flashing a toothy grin, “Stiles, is it? I’m Chris Argent.”

He held a hand out to Stiles, who was still having trouble getting his head around the fact that a) Derek was here b) his make out partner for the evening seemed to be dead c) Derek was here.  
Shaking his head like trying to clear a fog, Stiles stepped forward, glancing at Isaac who was now staring intently at Derek, and offered Argent his hand.

“Yeah, well, didn’t realise a night out on the town spelled trouble, but live and learn I guess. Live and learn.” Stiles felt sober, avoiding Derek’s gaze burning holes in him.

“Stiles”, Derek said, “would you just, fuck, would you just look at me?”  
Stiles was frozen to the spot, not wanting to look, but seeing Isaac nod at him encouragingly, he finally moved his gaze from Argent to Derek, who was still standing above the limp body.

“What do you want? Need me to go home? I’ll do that, right now”, Stiles sighed, waving his hand towards the bodies. “What about these, not suspicious at all, right?”

“Stiles, this is Argent, I told you about him? The Hunter?”  
Derek didn’t move from his spot but still seemed somehow closer to Stiles, making his skin tingle again (the bastard).

“He’s here to finish the business he started with the Old Ones back in 1998. And I’m here to take you to safety, no buts about it”.  
Derek finally stepped over the lifeless body, seemingly unconcerned about anyone seeing them. The back door was closed now, the music muffled, the alley empty and quiet except for them.

Isaac shifted on his feet, a bit unsure of what to do, still standing in front of Stiles. Stiles took a step forward, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, “can he take me home?”, Stiles asked, raising his eyebrows, nodding towards Isaac.  
 “No, not going to happen,” Argent stated solemnly while grabbing the man still on the ground by the neck, hoisting him up.

“Derek’s going to take you to safety, he’s the only one who can. This one”, he nodded towards Isaac, “can help me with the body and the interrogation, if he wants”.

Isaac started to protest, standing next to Stiles and staring at Argent with a look of pure mistrust.

“Hey, it’s okay”, Stiles squeezed his arm softly, “You know Derek’s going to be taking care of me. I need you to be safe too”. 

Isaac huffed, rolled his eyes, glancing at Stiles, “You sure? Since I thought you didn’t want - - ”

“Yes, hush now my fierce protector, please, just dude, shut up”, Stiles murmured, patting Isaac in the back. No need for the evening’s conversations to reach the ears of a certain priest. Nope.

Isaac seemed to relax, still staring at Argent with doubt in his eyes. But Isaac lived for this shit, the danger, the unexpected, and was always ready to learn new tricks.  
“I can help you”, Isaac stated with a half smirk, ”afterwards, you can buy me a drink”.

Stiles all but snorted, glancing at Derek whose eyebrows had lifted dangerously close to his hairline. The priest schooled his expression to stern stoicism, the look Stiles recognised, the one that was so Derek, making Stiles’ heart ache.

“Argent, I’ll call you tomorrow”, Derek stated, “I’m taking Stiles home, pack his bag and then we’re gone - like we talked about”.  
Derek made a nodding movement toward Isaac, “you’ll take care of him, right?”. Derek actually smirked. Stiles wasn’t okay with this. His heart was about to explode.

Argent, pushing the captive man forward and gesturing Isaac to follow him, huffed, “sure, I’ll do that. He seems - interesting”. Isaac was looking at Argent with an expression Stiles couldn't decipher, but since he had enough problems handling all that had happened in the last five minutes, decided to let it go. For once.

Stiles watched Derek pick up the body, carry it behind a dumpster and send a text message to someone. Isaac and Argent grabbed the still whimpering man and started marching him to the end of the alley, where a black SUV was waiting for them.

“That’s it?!”, Stiles screeched, turning to Derek, “The body, someone’s gonna find it!”.  
Derek fixed him with a glare so stern Stiles just made a zipping motion with his hand. They probably knew what they’re doing. Right.  
“And what’s this about packing? I’m supposed to go to work in the morning.”, Stiles stated, running after Derek who was already halfway down the alley to the opposite direction. Wasn’t the man supposed to protect him?

“After tonight’s attempt, which we were expecting, “ Derek said with a bite to his voice, “I’m taking you to my cabin upstate. Deaton knows this. The Old Ones are after you, like I said. I’m taking you to safety while Argent catches up with this thing. He should be motivated since they killed his family back in ‘98. He has a score to settle”.

Stiles’ mind was reeling. He had so many questions. Like, what was Derek doing in the bar? Was he following him? Of course he was, Stiles reprimanded himself, Derek was doing his job, no matter what. But a cabin? Just the two of them? Stiles didn’t think he could handle that, being alone with Derek somewhere, after all that they’d talked about. The whiskey was still buzzing in his brain, calming his nerves. Stiles was afraid that come morning, the situation would hit him with full force. He had absolutely nowhere to run.

Derek was walking in front of him, slowing his steps until Stiles could catch up. Derek looked worried, the ocean green eyes flicking to meet Stiles’, hands shoved to the pockets of the leather jacket. A small smile on his lips, Derek tilted a bit closer to Stiles, nudging his shoulder,

“It’s not the end of the world you know.”, Derek said, “just a little trip to the woods. Fresh air, maybe some swimming? I’m a pretty good cook and the cabin has wifi. It’ll be fine, you’ll like it. No one around, just us.  It’s - calm.”

Stiles felt anything but calm.


	8. VIII

The dark wolf sprinted towards the tree line, leaving Stiles standing on the small porch. He admitted, grudgingly, that Derek in his full wolf form was probably the most glorious thing he’d ever seen. Derek’s wolf was huge, reaching to Stiles’ waist. The black shiny coat looked soft - so soft that Stiles had had trouble keeping from reaching out. When they’d arrived at the cabin, after four hours of driving in mostly uncomfortable silence, Derek had simply dropped his pants (which, naturally, had caused Stiles’ brain to short circuit and left him speechless) and said he’d be checking “the perimeter”.  Sure, go check the perimeter like the fearless guard you are, Stiles thought heatedly, while trying hard not to just flail around and drool.

Stiles was left on the porch, with the bags, mouth gaping. To his defence, even though he was rarely left speechless, this, this was just too much. All that silky smooth flawless skin and muscles, just there in front of him. He literally had no words. Hauling the bags inside, he felt he’d reached his limit.

Derek had dragged him from the club to his apartment, made him pack a bag and then swiftly marched him to the church to pick up some clothes for Derek, and a car. Who knew priests had Land Rovers and one shiny black Camaro hidden in the garage. They’d driven up north in the Rover, stopping to get some groceries but other than a few stilted words about cereal choices, neither had spoken much. It drove Stiles insane.

He felt ashamed of the things that had happened lately. All of it. Thinking that Derek might actually have feelings for him wasn’t even on the top of his list anymore. Going out, letting his guard down, only to get dragged to the alley behind the bar - he should know better. He did know better. This thing, this made up thing with Derek had messed with his head. He felt like a novice, someone who needed protection, instead of - as he had stated - someone who could, in fact, take care of himself.

The cabin was nice, with a tiny living room and a fireplace, small kitchen and two bedrooms in the back with one adjoining bathroom. After getting the fire going Stiles checked the wards on the door and walked around the cabin to put some new ones in place. The golden strands shimmering in the air, surrounding him and melting into the late afternoon sun calmed him down. His magic centred him like a comforting blanket. After putting the groceries away and getting some water boiling for the pasta, he set up the computer. Which wasn’t working. The wifi wasn’t working. At all. He checked the modem, which was, in fact, dead. Perfect. A quiet evening alone with Derek, who would probably be reading a book while Stiles was supposed to, what, do some research using books? Staring at the wall? Reliving all the embarrassing things that had happened? In a cabin, just the two of them, in silence. No, just hell no. He needed entertainment, distraction, a movie maybe.

To avoid a full on panic mode he decided to get the pasta ready. He figured Derek would be back soon, hungry. He was right. When the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the trees, he heard soft steps of paws from the porch, the wolf slinking in using its snout to open the door Stiles had left ajar. Derek disappeared into the bedroom and emerged moments later dressed in a soft maroon Henley and grey sweatpants, looking utterly huggable. Because, why not, Stiles thought bitterly turning back to the stove.

“I’m making dinner, pasta, thought you might want some”, Stiles said without looking back, he had some stirring to do dammit. Derek didn’t actually say anything, just grabbed some plates and forks from the cabinet behind him and set them on a table in front of the couch. “And the wifi isn’t working, by the way, if there’s a thing you need to switch on or something. I couldn’t find it.” Stiles hated the way he sounded, stilted and thin, but he couldn’t help himself.

Derek went to check the modem, walked outside and came back in shrugging his shoulders. “Looks like you need to find some other way to entertain yourself, the line is down. Squirrels, probably”. He looked directly at Stiles, seeking eye contact like he had done several times during their drive, but Stiles kept his eyes firmly on the pan. There’s a point in a fight when you either let it go or you keep going long enough for the situation to poison everything. Stiles knew this, but his pride, the wounded ego was getting in the way. Stiles was ruining everything and he was already tired of it.

“Okay big guy, I’m sure I can find something else to keep myself busy - I’m very clever you know”, Stiles turned around, waving the pan and carrying it to the table winking at Derek. To his credit Derek only snorted, not acknowledging the sudden mood change but accepting it effortlessly. He would obviously take any kind of olive branch he could get. Eating the dinner in a more relaxed silence, Stiles darted quick glances at Derek, watching the man eat the pasta eagerly.

“This is really good Stiles, thank you”, Derek said quietly, glancing up and giving a tiny smile.

They were sitting on the couch, eating in silence, letting the fire warm their bones until they’d moulded themselves into the couch, legs almost touching. It was nice, friendly, but Stiles couldn’t keep his mind still and silent, the nagging voice that hated unresolved issues dragging its sharp edges along his patience.

“About before..”, Stiles nudged Derek’s knee with his toes. He was sitting cross-legged facing Derek, who was slightly more careful, holding the plate over the table, “I wanted to, uh, apologise”. Derek looked at him with wide eyes, startled. 

“I - Stiles, you have nothing to apologise for. Honestly.” Derek didn’t look exactly uncomfortable, but the look in his eyes was almost, begging? Stiles couldn’t leave it alone. He never could - for his own peace of mind he had to drag everything out there, get this over with and hope that they could be friends. That would be enough, it would have to be.  “Sorry man, not my style, keeping silent and all”, Stiles grimaced apologetically, “I have to say a few things and you can just listen. Maybe this awkwardness that I’m still feeling between us will magically disappear after this. I’m a talker, so let me do my thing”.    
Derek let his head hit the back of the couch, gesturing with his hands for Stiles to go on, “I’m sure I can’t stop you”.

“First”, Stiles started, ”I’m sorry about the church thing and you know, thinking maybe there was something between us.” He lifted his hand up when Derek started to say something, “No, no just wait. I made it all up, we already had this conversation, I know. NOW. I know what you were doing. I just let my imagination and okay, maybe desires”, Stiles tried furiously not to blush “get the better of me. But to my defence, I didn’t have all the facts. So. Uh, sorry. But it’s good now. Totally good, like, I’m respecting your boundaries and priesthood and uh, the fact that you are not, in fact, interested in me. At all.”   
Derek just stared, face blank, while Stiles was trying hard not to flail his hands around. Putting himself out there like this was mortifying. But it was far more important to fix this, and establish a professional relationship with Derek. So he was doing this.

“Second, I apologise for not taking the threat seriously. Going out like that. That was just stupid. I have no excuses. And taking all this out on you was unnecessary. I think all we have here is some good old fashioned hormones mixed with poor communication.” Stiles stared at the fire, finally turning to look at Derek, “I’m going to get over this, I promise and this is going to work, you and me actually working together.”

Derek nodded slowly, a look on his face Stiles couldn’t quite understand, a mix of pleading soft regret and fear. Stiles felt like bursting at the seams. Soon he'd be flailing around, speaking a mile a minute. He’d told Derek to keep quiet, but maybe someone had to stop him because he felt the inevitable rambling building up inside him. The words would soon be tumbling out without pause and the last time that had happened he’d had the biggest crush on a girl in high school. He felt about fifteen. He had to stop, but it seemed impossible.

“And and, ah, you know - - I thought I knew a lot about wolves, as in being a wolf whisperer or something. I was reading the signs as maybe casual scenting, and the touching, and I just - -”

And then Derek’s lips were on his. Soft and warm, barely touching, but there. Derek's hand had grabbed Stiles by the neck, dragging Stiles closer and suddenly all the rambling, nervous words and chaos in his mind was gone. Because Derek was actually kissing him. It was so unexpected. Feeling Derek’s mouth opening up, tentatively licking his bottom lip, tender and deadly at the same time. It made Stiles’ stomach plummet, he was jumping off a cliff  and it was the scariest and the best feeling in the world at the same time. Stiles felt the most embarrassing noise making its way out but managed to only sigh into Derek’s mouth. Lifting his hands to grab the man’s shoulders he dragged him even closer while opening his mouth, making Derek growl low in his chest. It was perfect, all wet tender heat and heavy warmth as Derek’s body pushed him down to the couch.

And then it was gone. The warmth, the heavenly mouth and the hard body, all gone. Stiles had never felt a coldness like this before and tried to reach out to pull Derek back. Derek was having none of it, getting up from the couch like a lightning had struck him. His fluid movements fast and precise, he stepped away from the couch and stood rigidly a few feet away. Stiles was scrambling up less eloquently, but, human here so.

“I’m sorry Stiles, I’m so sorry”. Derek wasn’t exactly looking at him, eyes focused on somewhere behind Stiles’ left shoulder, lips red and chest heaving like he was out of breath. “I should’ve told you before, lies never lead anywhere but to more lies. And I want this. I want you”. He was now looking Stiles directly in the eyes, the ridiculous colour of grey-hazel-ocean storm making Stiles feel unprepared and overwhelmed.

“Umm, what?”  Words, his trusted friends, had abandoned him at the most crucial moment. Because of course, Stiles thought, trying hard not to get frustrated. Missing by a mile.  What he wanted was right there, suddenly possible. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, trembling with contained want and raw power in front of him. All he had to do was to reach out and touch. Derek looked ready to run, or maybe explode - torn between two different options, two paths to walk down.

“Stiles, I can’t ask more of you and to throw everything, my life as I know it, away for a fling... You have a crush on me, but this is not possible. It’s not an option. I have a life, a way to serve, and to forget that just because I want you…”, Derek sighed closing his eyes, shoulders slightly relaxing, “This is not happening. I should’ve handled this better. I apologise. Please go take a shower and go to bed. I’ll be back in a while”. And just like that, Derek walked out the door, and Stiles heard a soft thump as the clothes dropped to the porch. Derek was gone.


	9. IX

The ground beneath Derek’s paws resonated with a steady rhythm of soft thumps. He’d been running for awhile, going faster and faster, trying to drown the protests in his mind with the cool scent of the dark forest around him. His blood is fighting back, drawing him to the cabin so he picks up the pace, widening the circle he’s been running, legs taking longer and longer leaps.

The thrum of his heart and the darkness surrounding him cleared his mind but the purple haze is still clinging to the edges of his eyes, making it almost impossible to see nothing but what the wolf wants. What he wants. Stiles. His mate. Derek had known it the first time they’d accidentally touched, the jolt of possessive want snapping him out of his usual calm demeanour. Not that he had shown it, instead tamping it down, hard. He’d only been able to control it because of his training, his priesthood. His faith muted the more primal traits of his nature, and he had pushed the realisation aside easily. He knew, had he been an ordinary werewolf, that the one touch would have been a revelation, and he’d been helpless, unable to in any way deny the connection. Derek had made a choice, pushed Stiles and his true feeling aside. Now he wasn’t so sure it had been the right thing to do.

He’d reasoned that giving up everything he knew, for the sake of his mate, wasn’t worth it. Derek knew he was lying to himself, but denial can get you very far, keep you functional. He would always find another way to serve God. To keep his faith.  He would give anything to share his life with his mate, all wolves would - he’d just never actually thought he might find his. But moreover, it wasn’t fair. For Stiles. A human, a powerful being in his own right, yes, but still a human, could never understand what the commitment being someone’s mate would entail. And Stiles had an infatuation, a crush. Derek could smell the want, he understood that. Accepted that. Stiles was not in love, could never commit to a full-blown, all-encompassing, lifelong marriage to a werewolf who hunted things for a living. Even if Stiles’ profession made him the perfect choice. Now, running through the woods with the moon caressing his coat, giving power to his muscles, he’s ready to admit he’d give anything to be with Stiles. But he would not ask that of him, ever, since that would be too much for a human.

Veering back to the cabin, Derek steeled his nerves. Stiles would fight this, would try to push his buttons to get him to yield. He would have to stand his ground, draw power from his faith and keep his distance. For Stiles’ sake. That was something he could do. Things for others were always easier to to do. He slowed down reaching the porch, finding the door wide open. Stiles was in his own bedroom, he could hear him tapping away on his mobile phone. Derek decided to avoid the unavoidable as long as he could, slinking into his room and with one smooth ripple shifted back to his human form. The bathroom between their bedrooms was empty, Stiles’ door closed, so he turned on the shower. Stepping in, letting the hot water beat his muscles he tried to relax, all the while ears trained to the other side of the door.

Pulling on his grey pants and a Henley, Derek tilted his head towards the other door. He could hear a heartbeat, fast and anxious, a hand brushing the door handle, the faint shimmer of magic making the air electric, Stiles retreating, a soft sigh. He felt glued to the spot, wanting to push the inevitable conversation until tomorrow and at the same time wishing it was already over. Turning away from the door he grabbed the duvet cover, deciding to wait until the morning. He was on edge, teeth itching and muscles tight, skin too small for his feelings. He’d be lucky if he could get any sleep at all, ears trained on the heartbeat.

The door was suddenly slammed open, the handle crashing loudly against the wall, Stiles storming in with a look of fiery determination on his face. So, apparently they were going to have the conversation now, Derek sighed in his mind, steeling himself.

“Who said I have a crush?”, Stiles had stopped by the bed, clenching his hands into fists, eyes fixed on Derek’s. His voice was steady, without any melody, like he was trying to control his anger, pinching the words flat and emotionless.  “You said I have a crush on you, I want - - “, Stiles almost hissed, “a fling”. He threw it out like a dirty word, letting it dangle between them, looking at Derek, eyes wet, cheeks flushed and oh - - One look at Stiles’ palms, he could see they were shimmering, golden honey glowing through the clenched fists. 

Derek wanted to take a step back, not because he was afraid Stiles was a bomb that was about to go off, but to give the man some breathing room. Instead, he stood his ground, making sure Stiles would meet his eyes. “Is that not what you've wanted all this time? A - -, a physical relationship with me? Because I can sense it, feel it, you’ve made it very clear. And the connection? You have developed a crush on me, I accept that, but - - “ 

Derek didn’t get to finish his carefully worded thought because Stiles threw his hands up, luckily glow free, letting an angry exasperated roar out. “You fucking stubborn blind werewolf! I swear to GOD I’m going to..”, Stiles made a choking gesture with his hands, “This is not a fucking infatuation you idiot. I never said I wanted to bang you and thank you. This is all you, you made the whole casual thing up to keep your virtue safe, didn’t you? To let you live in the illusion that we are not real. I’m in _love_ with you. Like rainbows-and-hearts-and-violins in love, with let’s-buy-a-house-together and I-can’t-wait-how-hot-you-look-with-gray-hair in love with you.”

Stiles finally stopped, chest heaving from pushing the words out fast, almost shouting, daring Derek to try and stop him. Like Derek could, staring at the flushed young man with wide eyes. There’s nothing more tearing than hope, and that feeling was trying to crawl through his chest, making it hard to breathe. Derek closed his eyes, unable to look at his impossibly beautiful mate in front of him. He couldn’t look at Stiles, who had just put it all out there, laid it at his feet, once again, and he’d have to what, say _no?_ To him, Stiles was the bravest person in the world. “Stiles, I won’t ask this of you, I - - “ Derek kept his eyes on the floor, steadying his breath, “you know what mates are?”

He could hear Stiles stepping closer, see his bare feet stopping in front of him. A gentle hand cupped his jaw, lifting his face up, until they were face to face, just looking at each other. This was so much worse than Derek had imagined. Stiles smelled good, home and safety, and he wanted to bury his nose in Stiles’ neck. He didn’t. Instead, he stood there, still, preparing to make the whole ‘I’ll love you forever and it’s not fair’ speech. Stiles, as usual, beat him to it.

“Thank god you’re so pretty because you’re kinda dumb”, Stiles huffed. “I grew up with werewolves, you know that. I would never say any of this to you, ever, more so because you’re a priest, if I wasn’t 110% serious. About you. About us. I know about mates, didn’t really think it was real, but I know that when you wolves commit, you’re in it for life. I would never say any of this, come after you knowing what this would mean for your chosen life if I wasn’t going to stay”. Stiles waited, patiently, for Derek to find his words. It seemed harder than usual, the hope choking him silent.

“You’re my mate, but I can’t ask you to stay forever and I can’t risk you leaving, it would end me.” Derek’s voice was shaky, feeling his resistance bleed out through his fingertips, leaving him soft and on edge at the same time. “My priesthood is not the issue, I could find another way to continue my work. It would be hard, at first, to change my life. But I want you in a way that’s borderline possessive, I want - - “, Derek found it hard to find the words to stress the seriousness of ‘I want you as my mate’ situation, afraid that Stiles for all his 'let’s-grow-old-together' fantasies maybe wouldn't understand.

He felt Stiles’ soft lips on his, merely grazing and Stiles whispering “Not going anywhere, ever. My magic can feel the bond too you know”. Derek tilted his head back, trying to focus his eyes, they were so close. Stiles’ eyes were shimmering gold, the look on his face pure love and adoration. Derek must have made a sound, a question, not that he realised it, since Stiles nodded, side of his mouth tilting up. Stiles felt the bond too, the pull Derek had tried to push down all this time. Releasing a deep breath he didn’t know he’d been holding Derek could feel a surge of tingling electricity run across his skin, making his head spin, his vision bleed to purple. Stiles, seeing the slight change or maybe more, sensing it, smirked almost devilishly before surging forward, claiming Derek’s mouth with one smooth movement.

Derek grabs Stiles by the back of his legs, lifting him up, all the while kissing him hungrily. Stiles laughs softly while being placed almost carefully on the bed, grabbing Derek’s shirt by the front and dragging the man on top of him. They kiss for a long time, enjoying the feeling of lips, tongues sweeping, hands roaming over each others bodies where they can reach. Stiles’ strong hands keep drawing Derek closer, even though that's impossible, Derek’s hips grinding steadily against Stiles’ in a slow mesmerising rhythm. It’s driving Derek crazy, the heat, the smell of Stiles, his large hands everywhere, pulling his shirt over his head, pushing his waistband down until his hands are on Derek’s bare skin. It’s almost too much, the scorching heat of Stiles’ touch, like the magic is seeping through the palms, sinking into his skin, making him shiver and pant, making his control waver.

Derek pushes himself up on his elbows, looking at the man under him. Stiles’ hair is a mess, lips bitten, pale neck exposed, waiting to be marked by him. “What, what is it”, Stiles asks, hands coming to frame Derek’s face. “Nothing. I, I need to breathe, I feel like I’m slipping”, Derek huffs, trying to turn his gaze away. The hands on his face are surprisingly strong, not giving an inch, forcing Derek to look. “Let go. I know who you are. What you are. You can’t hurt me, you know that, right?”, Stiles has a tilt to his voice, full of thrill and seduction, begging Derek to do his worst. Derek sees the trust, the dare - this is his mate. He’s allowed to let go. He’s supposed to. This was meant to happen all along. “Okay?”, Stiles whispers softly, running his hands down Derek’s back, grabbing his ass grinding up to him. With a low growl, Derek lets go of the control, letting his eyes bleed back to purple and starts licking and biting down that delicious long neck, exposed to him, for him to mark.

With steady hands he strips Stiles of his clothing until they are both naked and panting on the bed, Derek nipping down Stiles’ chest, swirling his tongue around the nipples, sliding lower, burying his nose into the curve of Stiles’ hipbone. He wants to taste Stiles, so he moves down, hands bracing Stiles’ hips that are trying to lift up from the bed. He can hear the other man’s breath, fast and shallow, a moan almost escaping from the bitten lips. He takes Stiles into his mouth, pushing down, sliding up and grabbing the length with his hand. He licks the underside with his tongue, slowly, repeating the motion, swirling his tongue around the head before pushing back down, taking all of Stiles in. The moan coming from the man beneath him is obscene. Derek wants to hear that sound over and over again, but he’s pulled up by strong hands, Stiles dragging him closer, mumbling words like _later, I want to look at you_ and _now_ spilling out in an endless stream, his lips crashing against Derek’s. Long fingers swirl around Derek’s cock, stroking and teasing, washing his senses bright white until all he can hear is Stiles, smell Stiles and feel Stiles.

He takes Stiles in his hand, keeping up a steady pace, listening to the telltale sighs and moans, stroking and taking his mate straight to edge. It doesn’t take long, the heat and closeness pushing Stiles over quickly. Stiles comes with a moan, back arching from the bed, spilling his come all over Derek’s chest, one hand grabbing Derek's neck while the other never lets go of his cock, still stroking with a slight stutter to the rhythm. Derek is close, he can feel the wave building inside of him, waiting for him to crash against Stiles. Looking at Stiles’ he sees an unnatural shimmery glow on his mate’s eyes, the man’s lips forming words he can't hear. He’s too far gone, he can feel his fangs pushing out and he tries to pull away. “Nonono”, Stiles is right there, keeping up the rhythm, dragging Derek steadily closer to the edge, forcing him to look at his face, “let go, I want to see. I want to feel it”, Stiles hushes, voice raw and overused, eyes feverish. Derek finally understands the words he’s been whispering to him, now hushed in a barely there litany over and over while Stiles tilts his head back, offering the side of his neck for Derek. _IwantitIwantitpleaseIneeditMakemeyours_ , the words surround them like velvety heat, Stiles’ hand quickening, gripping, pulling until Derek feels the wave of pure pleasure push out of him, making his stomach drop, muscles quiver and tendons in his neck tense until he feels he could break. While the white bursts of come are spilling over Stiles’ perfect pale smooth stomach Derek leans closer, biting the neck offered to him, pushing the tips of his fangs barely in, feeling the rapid pulse of his mate against his tongue. He bites, sucks, enjoying the heat, the blood just underneath the slightly broken skin, the taste of Stiles flooding into his mouth. Stiles moans loudly, tipping his head even further back, arching, hands grabbing Derek, pulling him closer, getting hard again.

The moments slip by, bodies sliding against each other, sweat pooling and being licked by hungry mouths, hands gripping, eyes searching. It's the best kind of drowning Derek can think of, being consumed by Stiles.

After, they lie still for a long time, hands wrapped around each other, breathing in the scent of them, mixed together across their worn bodies. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”, Stiles tilts his head back to see Derek’s face, gesturing towards the mess between them. Derek just nods, too happy and sated to form words. “Figured”, Stiles hums with a smile on his face, lifting a hand to his neck. The bruise there - the mating bite -  is throbbing. “It’s not sore, it’s just. Like your body is after a good fuck, I guess?”, Stiles mumbles, pushing the bruise with his finger. “Yeah?”, Derek muses, taking Stiles’ hand so he can see the said bruise. “ I bet I can make you more sore than that, anytime you want to go again. Properly”, he raises his eyebrow, making Stiles moan and shuffle even closer. “God yes, right after the shower, we’re not getting out of this bed anytime soon. Promise”.

Derek huffs while his phone makes an alert sound on the bedside table. After reading the email sent to him, while Stiles uses the bathroom to get a wet towel to try to clean them up even a little, he sinks back to bed.

“That was Argent. You better sit down”, Derek explains, patting the bed. “He eviscerated the faction residing in New York. By himself, that crazy man. Well, a little help from Isaac apparently.” Derek shakes his head, wishing he’d been there to protect his mentor. Pushing the slight guilt from his mind, he continues, “But there’s still the unresolved issue of a broken treaty. The threat is still there. And, uh, he needs me. To go hunt them down. Away from New York, away from the States actually”.

For once, Stiles is silent, staring at Derek while chewing his lips. Shaking his head he grabs Derek’s thigh, running his hand in a soothing motion against the skin, like trying to calm himself with the repetitive flow.

“I’m leaving the church Stiles, the priesthood, for you. I'll find another way to serve God, practice my faith. But I can’t leave this job, I can’t leave the church completely. This is what I do, and I need to find a new way to do this.” Derek’s eyes are pleading, with a slight edge to them. He’s scared, afraid Stiles would pull back, wanting Derek to change everything. He should’ve known his mate better, but then again, Derek was sometimes slow to changes. Stiles plops down to place his head on Derek’s chest, snaking his arm around Derek’s torso.  “Okay. Let’s do that”, Stiles murmurs against his chest. Derek makes an inquisitive noise, expecting Stiles to elaborate. “You’ll leave the priesthood like you should after doing the dirty with me”, Stiles pokes him in the ribs. “And continue as a hunter, like Argent, right?”, Stiles tilts his head up to glance at Derek’s face.    
“I don’t want to leave so soon after we - - “, Derek rolls his eyes, “did the dirty. I only now found you, got you, I can’t just up and leave my mate to go on a hunting trip around the world”.

Stiles pushes up on his elbow, eyebrows knitting together. His hand is running along Derek’s chest, dipping into the curves, smoothing the ridges of the muscles, letting small sparks tingle against the skin. “Ah no, you’re not leaving. I’m coming with. And before you say anything”, Stiles fixes a stern glare on his mate, I’m actually a huge asset, dangerous even. I’ll probably be saving both of your asses at some point. This is not debatable. We’re together from here on out.”

Derek thinks this is probably the way things are going to be from now on. Having Stiles in his arms, happy, and not being able to argue against anything the man says. He is Derek’s mate. His love. His everything. Who was he kidding - there was no way he could leave Stiles. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi on Tumblr](http://thedirtyprettythings.tumblr.com/)


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